


Can You Feel my Heart?

by MelCalder



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blow Jobs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Muteness, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Smut, Some angst, Trauma, Voyeurism, if that's a thing, kind of, mute draco, torture through turn on, wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-01-08 05:07:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 35,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21230294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelCalder/pseuds/MelCalder
Summary: There are no words in the English language to describe what Draco has been through, nor is there anything worth talking about.Until that changes Draco is going to stay mute.





	1. Can You Hear The Silence?

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been in my head for years. It was planned to be fast-paced, but it has turned into something else. This is me trying for somewhat dark and deep, maybe I'll succeed, maybe I'll fail, you decide.
> 
> Enjoy.
> 
> Title, obviously, taken from the song by Bring Me The Horizon, that I love and that just fits this story perfectly, even though I have only found out about the song like a year or so ago.

It is after the war that Draco stops speaking. It is not a conscious decision or something he notices right away. Because in the beginning no one really speaks. They don’t need to actually verbally communicate to know what they are all feeling. They are terrified. It is written into their faces so plainly that any contemplation becomes void. There are no words to describe what they have been through, so they stay close instead. They don’t hug, they don’t cry, they are Malfoys after all. They do, however, drink a lot of tea. Well, he and his mother do, his father drinks firewhiskey. Who can blame him?

When the Aurors come to take them, roughly one week after the battle, he doesn’t fight them. There is no fight left in him. He is relieved to hear that his mother’s case is fairly solid. She has been of enough help to Potter that she probably won’t be subjected to Azkaban. He relaxes then, drinks their tea and lies on the little cot in the holding cell, even sleeps, occasionally.

He makes some effort to follow his mother’s trial and when he hears the verdict, three years of house arrest, he zones out. His mother is safe, there is nothing he can do for his father. No matter how much it pains him to think of him in Azkaban, it is because of his choices that they are where they are and that he will end up there.

Instead, he retreats into himself, into a distant memory of an afternoon spent in the Manor gardens, the last summer everything was fine. They had just caught word of Barty Crouch Jr. fleeing his prison and his father had been in an exuberant mood. He had gifted his wife with a new diamond necklace and his son with a new racing broom. They sat outside, eating sandwiches, laughing, talking, taking the broom for a spin. Even his mother had tried and he remembers wiping tears of laughter from his eyes as she awkwardly climbed onto the broom, both legs on one side and hovered about three feet above ground. It was probably the most fun she had had and the most she had let go of the etiquette governing her life since she had been a child. They had been happy then. He chooses to remember them like that.

He barely catches a word of his own trial. He snaps out of his daze a couple of times when someone steps right in front of him and talks at him insistently. He just blinks at the person, recognizing the family attorney who looks slightly panicked at his refusal to witness his own trial. He barely notices that Potter the Prat testifies at his trial. Whether it is for or against him, he doesn’t know. And, honestly, he doesn’t care. But when he is finally taken out of his holding cell, to a small section of the Janus Thickey Ward a few days later he concludes that Potter the Prat must have spoken on his behalf.

They think he is a nut job, he thinks, as he flops onto the comfy bed in his new room and smiles a little to himself. They have thought him to be worse things than a nut job in the past. Nut job is just fine with him. He rolls onto his side and retreats to his happy place.

Life on the Janus Thickey Ward is better than life in Azkaban, obviously. It is warm there and comfortable, there are decent facilities, during the nights it is quiet, people there are desperate in an entirely different way, that doesn’t terrify Draco quite as much as Azkaban would have.

His days at JTW quickly become routine. Get up at seven, have breakfast in the common room with the other nut jobs, group therapy session, some free time after that and then lunch, also in the common room with the other nut jobs. After lunch he sometimes reads Muggle romance novels, because he doesn’t feel ready to stomach the Wizarding World yet. Luckily the library is full of the cheesiest junk he has ever laid eyes on. Some of these novels are quite steamy as well, but he cannot really stomach these parts. The words _voluptuous curves_, _quivering bosom_ and _wet folds_ make him queasy, so he just skips these parts. Sometimes he lies down after lunch and withdraws into his happy place.

Before dinner he has another therapy session that mostly consists of himself and his therapist keeping silent. At first it is funny to see him squirm in his seat uncomfortably when Draco doesn’t speak. But after a while he grows tired of it. So does his therapist. He suggests art therapy. Draco doesn’t really have a choice but to go. In the beginning his paintings suck ass, but after a while he gets the hang of it and actually enjoys it.

Then it is dinner and after that he retreats to his room. He goes to sleep early because it is only as long as there is still some commotion outside his room that he can actually sleep. But even though the presence of other people, nutty as they may be, soothes him, he doesn’t interact with any of them.

In this manner the days pass without Draco even noticing it. The only thing that marks the passing of time is his formerly short hair growing past his eyes, then his ears and finally his chin. If he cared about it, he would have to conclude that he has been at JTW for about a year. But he doesn’t.

* * *

As time goes by, Draco often skips group therapy and paints instead. He still has to suffer through his one on one sessions, though. And lately Therapist Schmendrick has taken to telling him all kinds of stuff. Draco might be mute momentarily, but he isn’t an idiot. He sees through Schmendrick who is obviously trying to annoy him into speaking. He also doubts Schmendrick’s abilities as a mind healer for surely it is evident that Draco will speak as soon as there is something that needs saying. Even though, he doesn’t know how long exactly he has been here, he knows that it is not good that he still refuses to communicate with the outside world. After all, he is not stupid. He knows he should probably make a bigger effort, but it can hardly be his fault that, even after the war, the English language hasn’t evolved enough to supply the words he needs to express himself. There simply are no words to describe what he has been through. What he has seen and done, what has been done to him. But he also remains sure that words will come, when there is something worth commenting on. So, he doesn’t worry, even when he can tell that Schmendrick worries.

Until that far away day that something important enough happens, he feels just fine painting, reading, visiting his happy place and flat out ignoring everything else. He doesn’t feel so good at night though, when the ward is quiet and the nightmares come, but with a little adjustment of his sleeping schedule, a quick nap after breakfast and then retiring right after dinner until the silence becomes too much to bear, he has managed to keep his nighttime troubles to a minimum. The adjusted sleeping pattern does mean, however, that he gets a wee bit less sleep than his body would like. But then again, _suck it body, it is your own fucking fault for not letting me sleep through the night_, he thinks. Plus, he has managed with a lot less sleep the last few years, so why doesn’t he feel like he’s been to a fucking spa by now? Life is full of mysteries, none of which he is willing to conquer.

He is forced out of his routine of ignoring everything and everyone eventually. And, of course, it is Potter the Prat that does it to him. He can probably be glad that it took the Prat and his Saving-People-Thing this long to start on him. Fucking Potter. Always trying to save someone.

He sits in his usual spot, eating what passes as porridge in the Janus Thickey Ward and contemplates how exactly he is going to finish his latest painting of a bird that he has spotted on his windowsill the other day, when he hears Potter’s distinct laugh and his head snaps up. And there he is, Potter the Prat, in all his Golden Boy glory, apparently flirting with one of the nurses. _Well_, he thinks bitterly, _while some of us are in the loony bin others are fucking everything that moves, isn’t life just the best?_

He pointedly averts his gaze and focuses on his porridge again, squirming a little in his seat. He is annoyed. Would there ever come a time when Potter didn’t get a rise out of him? When even a simple laugh wouldn’t press all his buttons? He tries to enter his happy place, but he cannot quite picture it. Images of Potter flood his mind. All of them bitter. Potter refusing his hand, Potter catching the snitch before him, Potter cutting him open from hip to throat. He bites his lip hard, the pain anchoring him to the present.

And then suddenly, “Hey Draco!” His head snaps up again. Potter the Prat has approached his table and has, devoid of any manners whatsoever, just like Draco remembers him, pulled out the opposite chair. He sits down and looks into Draco’s face, smiling. The images don’t stop flashing through his mind, but they change. Him stepping on Potter’s face brutally, cracking his nose, Potter looking up at him, face swollen, eyes pleading, him looking up at Potter, reaching out, panic in both their faces as the orange light of violent flames flickers around them.

“How are you doing here?” comes Potter’s voice and it effectively rips Draco out of the onslaught of memories that threaten to consume him. He doesn’t answer.

“Ah yes, the No-Talking-Bit still continues?” he says and smirks a little. No answer. Man, he is such a prat. And, of course, he doesn’t go away but keeps on talking instead.

“I’m here to visit Alice and Frank, together with Neville. They are getting way more responsive now that Neville’s grandmother doesn’t come along anymore. But these visits take a lot out of him, so I join whenever I can.”

Draco looks down at his breakfast, stirring his porridge listlessly. He knows about Frank and Alice Longbottom. Aunty Bella had never missed an occasion to brag about how she had been the only one whose devotion for the Dark Lord had never wavered. How she had rather spent fourteen years in Azkaban than renouncing her Lord and that she had been glad to take another couple of mudblood lovers down with her on her quest to find Voldemort. Although, she had never called him that, of course. His shoulders tense at the memories, already dreading the night. There is, of course, a reason he doesn’t deal with what has happened, why he doesn’t put in the effort he should to get out of here. The memories he lives through now, in the relative safety of the JTW common room, will visit him again during the night.

“It’s not like I have a lot to do lately,” the Prat drones on and shakes Draco out of his musings effectively, “I quit the Aurors. I felt like I’d done enough fighting for one lifetime, don’t you think?” It is only when the Prat winks at him that Draco realizes that he isn’t looking at his breakfast anymore, but straight into Potter’s face. How can the fucking Prat be so cheerful? For all Draco knows they have been pretty much through the same shit. How come he is all broken up and messed up inside and the Prat is, well, a prat? Then again, has it ever been different? Potter has always had it easier than him. Why is he even surprised that it is easier for him to deal with the aftermath of the war? Or maybe nothing is easier for him and he just deals with it differently.

“I haven’t figured out what I’m going to do next, really. I mean I could do anything, literally. No one would refuse the Golden Boy, would they?” he smirks again. Draco rolls his eyes and once he realizes what he has just done, he feels mortified. Potter the Prat has just drawn the first reaction to another human being in, well, however long it takes for his hair to grow this long, out of him. And he seems quite pleased with himself. Fucking Potter.

“I could try out for professional Quidditch. Or I could help George with the store. I could ask McGonagall if I could return to teach at Hogwarts. I could even become a mind healer and bother you every day.” Another smirk. “The possibilities are endless. Well nearly. Getting married to Ginny is off the table. She has hooked up with Theo Nott.” Draco’s eyes widen in surprise. Shit! Why exactly is the Prat getting under his skin, when nothing else has been able to penetrate his stupor for so long? And what is it with the smirk again?

“It seems that she has a thing for bad boys. I’m wondering why she never went after you. You would have made much cuter babies.” His face heats up and it would be pretty fucking great if it wasn’t visible. But that can only be a vain hope, since he hasn’t seen the sun in a while and his skin is almost translucent at the moment. When Potter winks at him again, he knows that his blush is indeed very much visible.

“I’ve got to go, sorry. It was fun talking to you. Do you mind me coming by the next time Neville visits his parents?” Silence. “Oh yeah, forgot about the No-Talking again. Well, then you will either have to suck it up or tell me to go.” He stands flashing a last smug grin in Draco’s direction and leaves the ward.

Draco ruins his painting that day, still wound up from Potter’s visit. And at night he is plagued by nightmares. He just hopes that Longbottom takes his fucking time to visit his parents again, because Draco needs all the sleep he can get.

* * *

A couple of days go by and Potter doesn’t return. Draco doesn’t know how often Longbottom visits his parents. Considering that they haven’t been able to be real parents to him and that he cannot really have any memories of them of the time they were still able to, he thinks that Longbottom probably won’t visit too often. He takes comfort in that. Every day that the Prat doesn’t show up at breakfast, he breathes a sigh of relief.

But his luck doesn’t hold for very long. Eventually, Potter shows up. At breakfast, just like last time, Potter walks into the common room. He seems to spot Draco immediately, because he walks straight up to Draco’s table where he sits by himself just like every day. Draco’s head snaps upwards at the sound of the chair scraping across the floor.

Potter looks different than last time. Or maybe he looks the same and Draco just hadn’t paid enough attention to the Prat. He still can’t quite figure out what is different about him. Also, he doesn’t really care, so he stops thinking about it.

“Hey Drake,” the Prat says and flings himself into the chair opposite of him. Draco scowls at him.

“Dray?” Potter tries. Scowl.

“Draco?” Scowl.

“Malfoy?” Draco gives a curt, barely visible nod.

“Malfoy? Really? You want me to call you Malfoy? No. Sorry. I won’t. I’m going to call you Draco, just as I have done the last time I’ve been through here.” The Prat grins at him smugly and is met with a grimace from Draco.

Potter doesn’t speak for a while until Draco raises one of his eyebrows in question. He figures, he has to accept the fact that Potter gets under his skin and this way he might even get some information out of him. Potter the Prat, thankfully, understands his need for information.

“Your mother is fine,” he says and Draco sags with relief, “Well, as fine as can be expected under the circumstances. We have exchanged a couple of owls. I’ll tell her that I ran into you and that she doesn’t have to worry about you.” Draco looks back at his breakfast and engages in the same listless stirring, he did during Potter’s last visit.

“It won’t do a lot of good though,” he says and Draco looks up from his breakfast. He sees emotions flicker across Potter’s face, sadness, grief, maybe even bitterness. “Not that I’m an expert on the topic, not having had a mother myself for most of my life, but they tend to always worry about their children, even when everything is fine.” Apparently, Potter really has his own share of pain and grief to work through and it makes Draco feel somewhat stupid for thinking otherwise, however briefly. Now that he takes in Potter’s appearance he recognizes the telltale signs of a person losing sleep. There are dark circles underneath his eyes, his skin has a greyish tint to it, and there are distinct lines edged into his face that shouldn’t be there for a person who has only just turned nineteen.

Part of the reason that Draco is in here is that he isn’t self-absorbed enough anymore to think that he has it worse than anyone else. He might have been enough of a git once to think that everything came easy to Potter, that he didn’t have a care in the world, he still sometimes thinks that, but he has seen what the war has taken out of him. He has seen Potter at the Manor and later in the battlefield, skinny and worn out, bloodied and bruised. He has also seen the bodies of his loved ones. He knows that Potter is suffering and with him so many more, just like he is suffering, and he knows that there might have been a time that he could have made a difference but now there is nothing he can do to change any of it. None of that, however, changes anything about the fact that Potter is a prat.

“Your father is okay, too, I guess,” he says and shakes Draco out of his musings. “The dementors have been pulled from Azkaban. It is still rough, though. We have been trying to improve the conditions, but progress is slow.” His hands clench into fists involuntarily, his knuckles turning white. He doesn’t want to think about his father in that place, although even he has a hard time pretending that he deserves anything else. At least the dementors aren’t there anymore to torture him.

This, admittedly one-sided conversation, is too much for him and it helps when Schmendrick’s voice suddenly calls out, “Mr Potter, good to see you. Could I talk to you for a minute?”

Draco doesn’t look up, doesn’t pay attention to what is going on between the Prat and the healer, but it helps him focus his mind when Potter the Prat gets up and leaves the room together with Schmendrick. He struggles to control his breathing, in through the nose, out through his mouth, in an attempt to also control his rampaging thoughts. He has been to Azkaban once when he was still fairly young. He remembers how he had begged his father to take him there. He had heard all kinds of scary stories and was desperate to see the prison. When he had heard that his father was bound to go there for a business meeting, he had taken to nagging him for days until his father relented and agreed to take him, albeit reluctantly. It was only when he stepped onto the island for the first time that he was able to understand his father’s reluctance. Azkaban was a dreary place to say the least. As soon as he entered the fortress, he regretted his insistence to come here. He felt horrible and when he came home he felt clammy for hours after, shivering and unable to get warm. After his visit he had nightmares for a week. His father only looked at him disdainfully, but his mother held him nonetheless. Even without the dementors there, he cannot believe Azkaban to be any friendlier than it had been back then.

When he has finally gained composure the thought hits him that Schmendrick and Potter are talking about him. He most certainly can’t have that. He gets up from his chair and slowly walks out of the common room in search of them. He finds them in the hall, next to Therapist Schmendrick’s office. He ducks behind a corner and listens in on their conversation.

“Mr Potter, I cannot tell you what a pleasure it is to have you here,” Schmendrick the boot-licker says. It figures that he wants to suck up to Potter, probably to arrange for some good press for the ward, probably in hope of donations and the like.

“It’s always nice to visit. It’s amazing work that you are doing here. I feel the public doesn’t appreciate the work done here enough. Probably because with illnesses of the mind recovery isn’t as spectacular and takes time.” Are they sucking up to each other now?

“I couldn’t agree more. That is exactly what I always tell my wife. But I want to talk with you about Mr Malfoy.” Well, if this isn’t exactly what he was afraid of.

“Er.. okay?” says the Prat. _Always so eloquent_, Draco muses.

“I couldn’t help but notice that he responds to you.” Fucking therapist, what a fucking prat. Theraprat. Draco smiles to himself slightly, he may be silent but he is still _so_ witty.

“He does?”

“Yes, very much so. During our therapy sessions he slips away completely. But when you talk to him he listens. And sometimes he reacts, if not verbally. I think, it might be beneficial to his recovery if you came around more often. Maybe once or twice a month. Or even more often if it suited you. Whenever you can make the time.” Oh, very nice, fucking theraprat. Now he is going to be stuck with Potter the Prat and his stupid Saving-People-Thing. He wonders if Schmendrick knows how Potter won’t be able to deny him if it means that he might be able to save Draco.

Draco turns around and walks back to his room. He lies down onto his bed and tries to fall asleep for his mid-morning nap. He can’t fall asleep, though, and with the prospect of more visits from Potter, he should probably learn to function on even less sleep.

* * *

From that day onwards, Potter the Prat comes regularly at least once a week. In some weeks he even comes twice. Now that he doesn’t come together with Longbottom anymore, he usually comes during Draco’s afternoon painting sessions.

When the Prat comes back the first time, Draco is in the art room, standing behind his easel, adding a few delicate black lines, the finishing touch to his painting, when suddenly the door is wrenched open and Potter the Prat comes stomping inside, flopping down into one of the armchairs by the window. Draco starts violently and drags the delicate brush across the whole canvas, damaging it beyond repair in the process. He scowls at Potter.

“Whoopsi,” the Prat says, “Sorry about that. Didn’t mean to startle you.” His tone is way too cheerful for the way he still looks drawn, tired and strung out. His skin sports the same greyish tint and the circles beneath his eyes have remained in place. But it doesn’t matter how pathetic the Prat looks, Draco is still mad at him for ruining his painting.

Also, he is sure that nothing about his entrance has been accidental. Potter and the theraprat think that Draco only reacts towards him and he would bet his right nut that his entry was planned and Draco has tapped right into this carefully laid trap when he scowled at him. He could kick himself for his lack of self-control.

He wishes Potter and the theraprat would leave him alone. The times when he hurt people, when he was a threat are maybe not long over but they do lie in the past nonetheless. All he wants is to be left in peace. He doesn’t want to harm anyone, he doesn’t want to talk (obviously) and he most certainly doesn’t want company. So, why in the name of Merlin does he keep bothering him? Surely, he has better things to do. Shaking hands, kissing babies, cutting ribbons, that kind of crap.

But Potter doesn’t leave. He just wriggles into the armchair to get comfortable and starts talking at him. Draco learns about his favourite brand of cereal, how he is a dog person and is thinking about adopting a Corgi, where he lives and how exactly he has managed to get several Muggle appliances working by magic instead of eccelcitricity – whatever that is. The Prat talks and talks until Draco stops listening to all that he says. Instead he grabs a new canvas from storage and begins painting aimlessly. It is his first try at abstract painting. Like his silence, it isn’t a conscious decision, but it is what flows out of him while he is listening to Potter’s constant babble.

After about an hour the prat falls silent and then it takes about another half hour before he startles Draco by saying, “By the way, Theo turns out to be quite the softie.” He chuckles to himself and then continues, “He had the whole clan against himself, that is until they realized that he is basically a lovesick puppy.” He laughs again. “It was quite funny to see how one after the other started to accept him. It probably doesn’t hurt that he hasn’t fought in the war. He hasn’t done anything that can’t be forgiven.” Hurt flashes through Draco’s eyes.

“You haven’t either, Draco!” the Prat says in a gentle tone that doesn’t fool Draco. Because, of course, he has. Potter rattles on, “Anyway, he has proposed to Ginny last week. I could never have pulled something like that off. So, I guess I should be happy for her.”

Finally, he makes to leave. Draco is relieved when he gets up from his chair and rights his clothes.

“This was fun, Draco,” he says cheerfully and walks over to the door. Draco looks after him and sees how he hesitates with his hand on the door knob. “I will be over again next week,” he says before opening the door and stepping through it. Draco cannot help but feel that his last words have been a threat.


	2. Can You See The Dark?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys are struggling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this comes a little later than I intended. I hope you can forgive me and will still enjoy this.

The problem with refusing to talk or interact with anyone is that it leaves you sadly ill-informed. It has been a while since Draco has known the day of the week, for every day is the same at the Janus Thickey Ward. That means, of course, that he lives in constant fear of the return of Potter the Prat. So, he starts to count the days in an effort to predict when the Prat will show up again.

It works out this way for the first couple of weeks. Once a week Potter the Prat shows up, talks about everything his mundane life has to offer and then he leaves again. Usually Potter acts cheerfully, even though Draco sees right through him. It annoys him, but it isn’t worth talking over, so he keeps his mouth firmly shut and works on his abstract paintings, ignoring the prat as best as he can. Potter’s constant chatter, though, distracts him too much to even think about doing anything else but bring different colors onto the canvas. He has gotten quite good at painting a lot of things, from animals, to landscapes, to still lifes, but on the days that Potter is there his paintings are always abstract.

He has worked on the same canvas for a couple of visits and it is only when Potter shows up one day looking even worse than usual that he cannot bring himself to touch his brush to the canvas. It is then that he realizes that Potter’s stories influence his work. The canvas before him consists of light colors, all of which have the same dull grey undertone that seems to cover Potter’s skin. A reflection of his affectedly cheerful stories. But today Potter doesn’t feel like light colors, he feels dark and brooding and Draco cannot bring himself to mix these new colors into the light blue and yellow and green that is currently covering the canvas. So, he takes the canvas down, fetches a new one from the storage room and starts painting in bolt dark colors.

Potter doesn’t say anything and once or twice Draco shifts his attention off his painting and regards him. His eyes are red rimmed as if he has been crying, but he doesn’t talk and obviously Draco won’t ask. He hears him sniff once or twice, but when he looks over, Potter just stares into the distance. Draco doesn’t mind the quiet, not when he is awake.

Draco only jumps a little, and luckily his brush is nowhere near the canvas when it happens, when Potter eventually decides to talk.

“It’s is Teddy’s birthday this week,” he says bleakly as if that is supposed to tell Draco anything. He racks his brain, but he has no idea who Potter is talking about.

“I feel like history is repeating itself,” he continues and his voice sounds raw and scratchy. “He is just like me, Mum and Dad dead before he had been even one year old. I mean I was one year old when my parents died, but you get what I mean, don’t you?” Draco cranes his neck a little to look past the canvas at Potter, it doesn’t seem right to not show any kind of reaction at all, when the other man is obviously struggling. When they lock eyes, Draco wills him to understand that he feels for the Prat and his pain, but he cannot bring himself to say it out loud.

“He’s your cousin, you know? You should meet him sometime.” And that is when realization hits Draco. Potter is talking about the wolf baby. Or his cousin’s and teacher’s son. He probably shouldn’t call him wolf baby, even in his own head. It is, however, how his father had talked about him. He remembers Voldemort taunting himself and his aunt Bellatrix when news of the new family member got out. He also remembers the look on his mother’s face later, when Voldemort wasn’t around, and his father ranted about what a disgrace her sister was. In a lot of ways Lucius Malfoy had always been a perceptive man, but he didn’t get emotions, and he didn’t catch the glassy-eyed look of unshed tears that his wife bore that day. Even though he loved his father dearly and he still does now, he knows that his mother deserved better then and does even more so now. She has always been too gentle for the family that she has been born into. Always putting family and her loved ones first, she went along with everything that was asked of her. And he followed right into her footsteps. Well, Voldemort’s threat to kill his parents helped a little, but he would probably have done everything his father asked of him anyway. It is hard to picture a future for himself, a time when he isn’t here, but he hopes that he will find some of his father’s resolution in himself and manage to use it to do better.

“But he has Andromeda, doesn’t he? So maybe it won’t be as bad for him. He won’t sleep in a cupboard.” Shaken out of his thoughts, Draco struggles to catch on. What is Potter talking about? Sleeping in cupboards? Is that code for something?

“He has me, of course,” he says and looks up at Draco, “I’m a crap godfather. I can’t bring myself to go there too often. He looks just like them, Remus and Dora.” He flinches a little as the names leave his mouth. “And Andromeda is grieving. She is devastated. She’s lost her husband, her daughter, her son-in-law. Not to mention, her whole family, but that was years ago.” He rubs his hands across his face, and then rakes them through his already messy hair, making it stand out even more. “He is a Metamorphmagus, just like Dora was. Most of the time his hair is turquoise, but when you cuddle him and he is about to fall asleep it turns pink. I think that is when he remembers…,” his voice breaks and he swallows audibly.

There is nothing Draco can do to help him. There is nothing even, he can do to understand Potter. His family is still alive and so are most of his friends. An image of Crabbe flashes before his eyes and an almost inaudible gasp leaves him at the sharp pain that jerks through him unexpectedly. He decides not to think about him. How would he remain standing if he thought of him right now? How must Potter feel then? He has lost so many more people than he has. How does he even still get up in the morning? He puts his brush down and grabs a new one. Thinking about what Potter has just told him, he adds a small new part to his painting. When he is satisfied with his work, he walks over to Potter, who is silently crying in his chair. He holds out a hand. Potter seems to contemplate whether to take it or not and painful memories cause Draco to flinch when he gets up without taking the offered hand. Pushing his feelings aside, he grabs Potter’s wrist which lies warm and firm in his hand. He could swear that he can feel his pulse fluttering beneath the pads of his fingertips, but he doesn’t dwell on any of it. Instead, he pulls Potter to the canvas.

The painting is almost entirely black, a couple of dark green lines and patches give the painting the look of a violent, apocalyptic thunderstorm, because that is how Draco has perceived Potter today. He can see Potter’s eyes moving over the picture and then stop when they reach a small blotch of color. Cyan and magenta running into each other like in an aquarelle painting. His eyes well up with tears again, but he doesn’t tear them away from the little blotch of color.

“So, there’s still hope, is there?” he says shakily and Draco squeezes his wrist shortly before letting go. “You’re probably right.” He straightens his shoulders, shakes out his arms and legs as if he has just got off his broom and brushes the tears from his face. Draco’s breath catches in his throat when Potter turns towards him, standing way too close for comfort. Everything seems to be happening in slow motion. Potter leans in towards him, his eyes flutter shut and Draco feels like he could count each and every one of his thick lashes, when suddenly the Prat’s lips brush his cheek and he murmurs, “Thank you, Draco.” His cheek explodes with heat and of its own accord his hand finds its way to his face as he looks after Potter dumbfoundedly.

At the door, the prat has the gall to turn back and smirk at him. “Try to live by your own advice, Draco,” he says and then leaves. Draco scowls after him, his cheek still burning from Potter’s touch.

* * *

Sometimes the odd visitor leaves a Prophet behind and Draco usually keeps his distance. If he were ready to face the outside world he wouldn’t be in here, would he?

Today is different, though. He feels like he is making progress. He has one regular visitor and even though they do not talk per se, they communicate on some level and that has to count for something. Just yesterday Potter reacted to his little gestures and shifts in expression just as if Draco was actually answering him. He also doesn’t zone out as much as he used to during his therapy sessions. Although he wishes he would. Because, damn, therapy is stupid and especially so, when your theraprat doesn’t know what to do with you anymore.

So, when he sees the Prophet lying at the end of his table this morning, he averts his eyes purposely. He tries to focus on his food which is just as unspectacular as always and, therefore, doesn’t do anything to keep his attention. He finds his eyes drifting to the paper again and again, even though he tries his best not to notice. But it might as well be screaming at him for all the success he has at ignoring it. He shovels spoonful after spoonful into his mouth until temptation gets the better of him and he pushes his breakfast away and inches towards the paper.

In hindsight he would later conclude that someone has probably left the paper on purpose. It lay right on his table, after all. And it is not like Draco hasn’t seen the glares that he sometimes receives, even at JTW.

It takes him a couple of minutes until he has made the way to the paper and when it lies in front of him he brushes his fingers across the yellowish paper. He takes it into his hands and opens it carefully. It is just as trashy as he remembers it. There is no real news on the first couple of pages, only gossip and the weather forecast. It is only when he hits page 8 that a headline springs up at him and several things happen at once.

A small analytical part of himself immediately draws the conclusion that the paper has been planted at his table for a reason. That reason being, of course, to hurt him. Another small and also quite analytical part of himself concludes that that has worked out rather well. The rest, the biggest part of him roars.

_CONVICTED DEATH EATER DIES OF HEART ATTACK_

_Last night convicted Death Eater Lucius Malfoy died in his cell in Azkaban. According to a first examination of the body, Malfoy (47), who had completed the first year and a half of his five-year sentence, is believed to have died of a heart attack. Read more on page 12._

Draco feels what is left of his sanity crumbling. Tears rush to his eyes as he tosses the paper onto the table. Everything is a blur. He stumbles to his feet, looking down onto the table, at the paper and that heinous article. How can this be real? _Can_ this be real? Surely someone would have bothered to come here and inform him in person instead of letting him find out by himself. Has his mother been informed? Is she okay? Well, of course, she is, because this has not happened. His father isn’t dead, because he can’t be. This must be a mistake. Or… or a dream. Yes, that must be it. This is nothing but a nightmare and surely, he is going to wake up any second now.

He pinches himself, but nothing happens. He doesn’t wake up, he just remains in the Janus Thickey common room. Does that mean that this isn’t a dream after all? NO! It can’t. This is not something Draco can live with. He stumbles backwards, nearly knocking over a chair and takes three unsteady steps to the side. His hand brushes his breakfast tray and before he even really notices it, he pushes the tray off the table. He sees it falling to the floor in slow motion and he is sure that it won’t hit the floor, because in dreams that isn’t what happens. He is sure it will reverse its fall and sit on the table again, just as if nothing has ever disturbed it. But then it hits the floor.

He storms off towards his room and starts on the flower pots and with each pot that leaves his hands he prays to Merlin and all that is holy that it will stay intact, that it will float back to its designated spot on the windowsill and finally confirm that this isn’t happening. But each and every one of them explodes as they hit the walls. And when all the pots are gone, smashed into a million tiny pieces with earth and leaves flying everywhere, he starts on everything, anything he can get his hands on.

The door flies open and hits the wall with a loud bang, Schmendrick is running into the room, but Draco doesn’t even notice him, he doesn’t hear him screaming at him, because he is overwhelmed by the desperate need to finally prove that this is not reality. He pinches his arm again, stronger this time than he did in the common room and when he still doesn’t wake up, he scratches his arms, his legs, until he draws blood. The pain, that has been distant so far, because he has been so sure that none of this is actually happening, hits him full force and the sharp distracting discomfort of his nails dragging along his arms and of his hands pulling out strands of his hair, is the last thing anchoring him, as the realization begins to dawn on him that this isn’t a dream after all. Because what is trying to enter his chest is something he has never felt before, something beyond pain, beyond the Cruciatus and it would surely kill him instantaneously if he were to feel it undilutedly.

When Potter the Prat enters the room, he breaks through Draco’s haze, because of course he does. Potter has always gotten under his skin. Draco turns on him and starts to throw punches at the other man. He lands two or three before the Prat catches him by the wrists and quickly turns him around, so that Draco’s back is pressed against Potter’s chest. Draco uses the hold that Potter has on his upper body to kick at everything and anything within his reach.

Potter draws him to the walk-in closet and pulls Draco with him as he backs into it. He drags him all the way into the closet until his back hits the back wall and then he slides down, pulling Draco with him. Draco still struggles, when Potter grabs both of his wrists into one hand and pulls first one and then Draco’s second leg to his chest and grabs him in a vice-like grip. They sit like this, Potter’s back to the wall, arms around Draco’s body, crossed in front of his knees. Draco struggles to get free, but he cannot move his hands or legs and therefore, resorts to biting the Prat’s arms.

“Shush Draco,” he whispers in Draco’s ear, “I know it feels like your heart has been ripped from your chest, but you need to calm down.” He starts rocking him gently, but when Draco keeps on struggling he stops. “No matter how much you struggle…” Draco bites him again. “…or hurt me, I’m not letting go of you.” He resumes the rocking motion after the few minutes it takes Draco to realize that all his struggling isn’t getting him anywhere and he slowly starts to relax. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs from time to time, as the pain rips through Draco in earnest.

The truth of what has happened dawns on him and violent sobs wreck his body. His father, whom he loves like none other, with whom he hasn’t had good times in years and years, is dead. Before they could have met again, before they could have had anything resembling a relationship again. He hasn’t heard his own voice in so long that it takes him a while to realize that it is his own voice that reverberates through the cramped confines of the closet. Even if he still knew his voice this definitely doesn’t sound like him. It sounds broken, like an animal gnawing its own foot of to escape a bear trap. And he would gladly do just that if it meant he didn’t have to feel like this.

When Potter realizes that Draco has stopped fighting him, he lightens his grip a little, but he keeps whispering in Draco’s ear and rocking him. They sit like this for a long time. Potter eventually shuts up, but he doesn’t show any signs that he is going to let go of Draco. At some point, he calms down a little, the sobbing ceases, but the tears keep falling silently now. He rests his head on Potter’s arm, which must be soaked by now.

Draco doesn’t know how long they have been sitting in the closet, when he hears footsteps approach on the other side of the door. He tenses for a second, but Potter murmurs, “I’ve got you.” And Draco believes him. The door swings open and although he cannot see him, he knows it is Schmendrick.

“Mr Potter, it’s time to come out of the closet,” he says gently and for some obscure reason Potter startles violently.

“I… how… how do you know I’m gay?” he half stutters, half blurts out. And before Draco knows what is happening an undignified snort leaves him and his lips twitch. Surely, this is the most ridiculous situation he has ever witnessed. It is the closest he has come to laughing in years.

“Er,” says Schmendrick, embarrassed. He can hear him shuffling, probably swinging his arms back and forth in mortification. “Well, please come to my office as soon as you can, Mr Potter,” he says and storms off.

Draco still smiles faintly. He can feel the heat, of a furious blush, radiating off of Potter and it lets him forget his grief for a few blissful moments. Potter seems to think it’s okay to get up now, but Draco isn’t ready to face the world yet. Not even the limited world of the Janus Thickey Ward and the moment Potter loosens his hold on him to stand up, Draco snatches his hand back with his now newly mobile arm. Potter complies without a word, probably too embarrassed to talk anyway.

Draco lets a few minutes pass before he starts wriggling his butt against Potter’s crotch. Just to taunt him a little, he thinks. His father has just died, he is entitled to a little mockery. Thick as he is it takes Potter some time to realize what Draco is doing.

“Oh, you’re so full of it, stupid wanker,” Potter growls and slaps Draco’s shoulder. But when he sees Draco snickering quietly, his lips begin to twitch as well. He gets up and pulls Draco with him. They stand face to face and the moment their eyes lock, all the mirth is swept away in a wave of misery. Draco’s eyes fill with tears again and he slumps forward against Potter. He scoops Draco up as if he weighed nothing and with the quality of the food at JTW that might just be the case. He contemplates resistance, but he has no strength left for that, so he just lets it happen.

Potter carries him into the small infirmary. As the Janus Thickey Ward is dedicated to illnesses of the mind, there is only one small room that is equipped with regular medical supplies that would be found in every room in other wards. When they arrive there, he sits Draco down on the counter and starts rummaging through the cupboards. Draco doesn’t pay much attention to what he is doing until he stands before him with a little bottle and a cotton ball. He applies the liquid from the bottle, which Draco identifies as dittany, to the cotton ball and begins to treat his arms and legs. Even to a person who has grown up with magic it is wonderous to see how the wounds close within seconds and leave his arms in perfect condition, just as if nothing’s ever happened. When his arms and legs are seen to, Potter lifts his hands to his head and Draco violently flinches back until he realizes that he just wants to straighten his hair. He leans into the touch that feels so comforting to his touch-starved body.

Potter scoops him off the counter and carries him back to his room where he puts him down on the bed. Once Draco safely sits, he turns around and fixes the room with a couple swishes of his wand. Soon the room, just like himself, looks like nothing’s ever happened to it. He walks to the closet and gets out Draco’s pajamas and helps him change, then lifts the blanket for Draco to scoot in and tucks him in tightly. His hand reaches for Draco’s head again, brushing his hair to the side, before he leans in and presses a gentle kiss to his forehead.

“I’ll be back in a second,” he whispers against Draco’s skin and before he has any chance to grab him, he is out of the room. But he is true to his word and returns only a few seconds later with a small vial in his hand. He holds it out to Draco and without a question he gulps the potion down. In part because he trusts Potter and in part because he’d welcome the poison. As soon as he tastes the sour potion, however, he knows it isn’t poison but Dreamless Sleep. The drowsiness comes instantly, but he fights it and grabs for Potter’s hand instead.

“I’ve got you,” he repeats and squeezes Draco’s hand reassuringly, “Sleep. I’ll stay here.” And he lets sleep claim him then.

When he wakes up the next morning, he knows that Potter has probably left the room at some point to speak to Schmendrick, but he has returned just as he promised and is now sleeping on a transfigured armchair next to Draco’s bed, holding his hand still or again, it doesn’t matter. It is hard to think of him as the Prat now that he has done something that few have before him, shown him kindness. No, of course, people have shown him kindness before, however else would he be able to detect it. His parents for example had always cared for him deeply. The thought of his father twists inside him like a knife and he can feel the tears welling up in his eyes again. But they have also let him down in the worst possible way by leading him on a path set towards disaster. And that is why Draco considers last night kindness in its purest form because it was delivered to the undeserving. How could Potter ever be a prat when he was capable of caring for someone who was in turn capable of such atrocities?

When Potter wakes up, Draco is crying. Although, not as violently as yesterday. He cannot seem to stop, no matter how much he may want to. Potter is all over him instantly.

“Are you alright?” he asks, sounding genuinely concerned. Draco nods and tries to give him a grateful smile. Potter’s reaction is to pull Draco’s hand towards his face and place a kiss on his palm. He isn’t in any way equipped to deal with what the gesture makes him feel, so he just closes his eyes and tries to think of nothing. It is a vain attempt because as soon as his eyes are closed images of his father flood his mind and the sobbing starts again.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you,” Potter says quietly and Draco’s hand tightens reflexively around Potter’s because how could he be upsetting him right now?

“I’m going to fetch you some Calming Draught!” He is back within minutes and again Draco swallows the potion without question. The effects are immediate, the sobbing ceases instantly and a couple of minutes later the tears stop as well. After about ten minutes Draco no longer feels like he is dying and he snuggles into the sheets. Potter still shoots him worried glances every few seconds and when he cannot take it anymore he shoves him lightly to signal to him that it is okay to leave.

“Really?” he asks hesitantly. Draco nods, but Potter still looks at him doubtfully. He changes tactics and wrinkles his nose slightly. Potter huffs a small laugh.

“Oh, I stink, do I?” he says and Draco smirks at him. He laughs again, the sound filling Draco’s chest with an emotion he cannot decipher through the haze of the Calming Draught.

“Will you be okay?” He won’t, obviously, not today anyhow, but he nods nonetheless. Potter cannot stay with him forever and the Calming Draught makes him almost believe that he will be able to survive this.

* * *

After his breakdown Potter comes by more often, almost every day, except for Sundays because that is apparently when he has lunch with his family. He is also more open with Draco, telling him more of the truth instead of the censored bullshit he has been bothering Draco with for the last few weeks.

Draco learns about his living situation, how the Prat has inherited the Black estate and is trying to make the place inhabitable. Draco remembers visiting the place, before he was of Hogwarts age. Even then the house had been gloomy and it is hard to imagine how bad it has become after being empty for such a long time. He even remembers the old house elf that, according to Potter, has got even worse. But through everything that Potter tells him he cannot help but feel that it is an awfully big project to remodel such a large house by himself. Especially when he’s still struggling with overcoming emotional trauma.

Potter also tells Draco about his upbringing and he wonders how he is supposed to leave the beliefs behind that have been pounded into him ever since he can remember and probably even before that, when Potter tells him these kinds of stories. The Dursleys or whatever their stupid name is sound atrocious. He finds himself balling his fist and breathing heavily with fury a few times when Potter talks about them. Potter is usually surprised by Draco’s outrage and it just fuels the rage that, although, he definitely knows that he was mistreated, he apparently has no grasp of the extent of it. The abuse had become so familiar to him that he doesn’t see how bad it really had been. A child might not necessarily need to be spoiled like he had been, but it needs to be loved and he cannot fathom how Potter has turned into anything resembling a functioning adult when he had never had that.

Potter is also more open with his dark days which come irregularly once or twice a month. He doesn’t know what triggers them and, obviously, he doesn’t ask. But he tells him how he has never been able to mourn his godfather properly after he died in an attack led by Draco’s own father. He feels ashamed for his family and wonders what exactly it is that Potter is doing here with him. Why is he still coming here when he could spend his time with so many people who are so much more deserving of his attention, of his help.

He hears about Dumbledore raising and teaching Potter just so he could die at the right time and even though he is grateful for Voldemort’s defeat, he feels like pissing on the old bastard’s grave. Potter explains all about the magic of his mother’s sacrifice and doesn’t question the necessity of staying with his relatives for one second, while Draco wonders when Potter had ever had to rely on that magic. Voldemort hadn’t targeted any of the Order’s safe houses, not once until the war had properly begun. So why, he asks himself, had it been so important to send the helpless kid that Potter was back to his abusive relatives where he suffered nothing but neglect and rejection. How could Dumbledore have been genuinely good if he was willing to overlook child abuse. He was the most powerful wizard alive for fuck’s sake, he would have been able to find a way to protect Potter if he had only wanted to, Draco is sure of that.

The weight of all the things he had chosen to ignore about Potter threatens to crush him sometimes. But then when he returns the next day, his dark day has passed and he is in a better mood and Draco sees that there is a way to work through such trauma or at least to live with it and that gives him hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear what you think!


	3. Can You Fix The Broken?

Draco has spent a couple of weeks doped up on Calming Draughts and even before Schmendrick suggests to slowly wean him off the highly addictive potion he knows it is going to be hell to get off it. Potions hadn’t been his best subject for nothing. He knew the risks of taking the potion the moment Potter had handed it to him. He doubted though that Potter had known and his suspicions are confirmed when Potter walks into the art room on the third day of Draco’s detox. He looks stricken and isn’t able to meet Draco’s eyes, obviously guilt ridden.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, voice heavy with guilt, “I never knew. I thought I was helping you.” A small smile spreads over his face because, of course, Potter would take the blame for all of it, even when Schmendrick had been the one to continue with the treatment. One dose does not an addict make, but apparently his breakdown was severe enough that Schmendrick rather had him suffer through withdrawal than through mourning his father on his own. Draco isn’t angry with either of them. Even though his head is throbbing and he is sweating and twitchy. The news of his father’s death hasn’t really sunken in yet and it still hurts like a motherfucker. All of it combined makes him somewhat short tempered.

“How do you feel about an outing?” Potter asks and Draco raises a sardonic eyebrow at him, smirking slightly. Potter blushes. “I’m not talking about the closet, you great git,” he says quickly, turning an even deeper shade of red. “I’m talking about getting out of here for an afternoon.” Draco looks at him, unsure if that is advisable in his state.

“Come on! I thought about treating you to piece of cake. Schmendrick tells me, sugar helps with the withdrawal and there’s a lovely Muggle café a few blocks from here,” he rambles. At the words cake and Muggle Draco’s eyes light up and he is met by a relieved, toothy smile from Potter.

Potter waits outside while Draco rummages through the closet for something to wear. He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he was outside the last time, just like the Ministry the Janus Thickey Ward only has enchanted windows. Figuring that he can always shed some clothes when too warm, he chooses a heavy coat and a wooly hat. He looks at himself in the mirror, the first time in months. His hair has grown long and bears an aggravating resemblance to his father’s. So, he does his best to hide as much of his hair under the hat as possible. He also looks thin and his naturally pale skin is almost translucent, making it possible to trace the veins underneath his skin and showing off dark circles under his eyes. All in all, he has probably looked better in his life, but they are only going into a Muggle café where no one knows him, so who cares?

When he walks out of his room, Potter laughs at him and he is suddenly vividly reminded why he went with the byname the Prat in his head for such a long time.

“Draco, it’s May! You don’t need a coat or a hat,” he chuckles. Draco glares at him and turns on his heel, Potter follows him, probably making sure that he picks something suitable to wear this time. He sheds the coat easily but is reluctant to part with the hat.

“What is it with the hat?” Potter inquires. Draco shoots him a look somewhere between helpless and angry. “It’s going to itch like crazy, take it off,” Potter says. Draco shakes his head.

“What is it?” he repeats. “Don’t you want to take it off?” Draco shakes his head. “Why? You’re not cold, are you?” He shakes his head. “Is it about the withdrawal?” He rolls his eyes. “Sorry,” Potter snaps without heat, “This would be easier if you just answered me! Is it your hair?” Draco nods and drops his gaze, embarrassed. Potter takes a couple of steps towards Draco and reaches out, lifting his chin. “Is it too long?” he asks softly. Draco’s eyes brim with tears again and he gives the slightest nod. Potter drops his hand immediately and rummages through the side pockets of his shorts. He pulls out some kind of dark grey rag and holds it up.

“This might help,” he says triumphantly, beaming up at Draco. The rag turns out to be a thin beanie which Draco grabs without further hesitation and puts on his head.

“Very stylish,” Potter comments and earns himself another glare from Draco.

* * *

Potter apparates them to a small side alley from where it isn’t more than five minutes walking distance to the café. He wouldn’t have believed it, but the café turns out to be rather charming. It’s also not particularly full which is a relieve to Draco. Most people probably spend the day outside because it is a glorious day. Draco’s walked half off the way to the café with his eyes closed and his head turned towards the sun, bumping into one old lady and almost running into lamppost, before Potter took mercy on him and guided him.

They find a small table near the window and Draco’s gaze wanders outside a lot. It is only now that he has been outside, that he can see it through a window, that he realizes how much he has missed it. Not the people though, but the sun, the wind, trees and grass and flowers. The waitress brings them the menus and Draco is delighted by the wide range of choices. He shows Potter what he would like and Potter orders it. Draco has tea and Potter has coffee, they both have chocolate cake.

As soon as the cake is set down in front of him, Draco digs in. He hasn’t had anything that delicious in forever. The last time he had been able to really appreciate a desert would have been sometime during fifth year. The moment he puts the first bite of cake into his mouth, a long, satisfied sigh escapes him. And for a short while the world around him ceases to exist and for a pleasant reason for a change. For a few minutes there is only him and the cake, it is like a religious experience. When he finally looks up from his now empty plate, Potter is staring at him, unblinking, jaw slack. Draco frowns and Potter swallows audibly, before he smirks at Draco and pushes his untouched piece of cake towards him. Draco pushes it back, still frowning.

“No,” Potter says, “You eat it. You’re the one who had to live on hospital food the last year and a half.” A year and a half? It is the first time he has heard how long he has actually been at JTW and for a second, he is on the brink of panic, but then he looks down and sees Potter’s cake in front of him and just eats it instead. When he is finished and they both have finished their beverages, Potter pays.

“Do you want to get something for later?” he asks. Draco shakes his head quickly and steps out of the café and into the sun. Potter takes some time to get out, probably needing to use the loo or something. Draco doesn’t care, he just turns his face towards the sun and waits. When he finally steps outside and joins Draco on the sidewalk, he holds a small bag up in front of him.

“Bought you scones. It seemed like you’re in desperate need of some proper food,” he says, “Want to go for a little walk?” Draco nods and they start walking.

When they arrive home that day, Draco hands Potter his hat back. His hair stands out in every direction just like Potter’s from being crushed underneath it. He runs his fingers through it in an attempt to straighten it out, but to no avail. He would need a hair brush or comb for that. So, he gives up quickly. Potter reaches out and tucks one strand of hair behind his ear.

“Shall we go to a hairdresser tomorrow?” he asks. Draco shakes his head frantically. Just the idea of a stranger touching his head is overwhelming. “One of the nurses then?” But Draco cannot imagine letting them touch his head either. Potter looks embarrassed when he speaks again. “I could try,” he says quietly. He blushes when their eyes lock again. Draco shrugs, thinks about it for a minute and then nods. He can trust Potter around his head.

“I have never done this before,” he says, “So, it might not be such a good idea.” But Draco shrugs, he doesn’t care how it looks as long as it isn’t his father who looks back at him from the mirror anymore.

Potter fetches some scissors and gets to work. In the end it doesn’t look half bad. It doesn’t compare to how he looked after visiting his mother’s expensive coiffeur, but it will do. He squeezes Potter’s hand gratefully, when he says his goodbye.

* * *

They go out almost every day after that. At first, they go to different cafés for cake and coffee, or in Draco’s case tea, then they go to different restaurants, trying the cuisines of as many different countries as they can. After the first couple of outings, Draco starts to look forward to Potter’s visits. On the one hand, because he is glad to finally eat actual edible food, on the other, because Potter isn’t bad company. It is also fun to try all these new foods. Still they keep near the hospital.

After a while their trips bring them farther and farther away from the hospital. They visit the London Zoo, and Potter tells him how he once let a snake loose on his cousin. They ride the London eye, go to the Natural History Museum and when they have finished with most of the Muggle sights, they go hiking in Cornwall, eat Seafood at the coast of Scotland and wander through the ruins of different abandoned castles. He cannot help but wonder why his parents have never shown him any of this. For people who were so proud to be British wizards they didn’t show him a lot of his country and its history.

Draco enjoys the trips they take and often wishes that he didn’t have to return to the Janus Thickey Ward afterwards. Only the other people bother him. Sometimes when there are too many people, Draco grabs Potter’s hand for safety, to anchor him. Sometimes when there aren’t a lot of people Potter grabs Draco’s hand and he lets him because it feels good to be touched.

One day, they are sitting together in a restaurant eating pizza, when Potter says, “How would you feel about visiting your mother?” Draco’s head shoots up from his pizza and immediately his eyes fill with tears. He doesn’t know what to think, how to act or where to look. Potter reaches over the table and grabs his hand.

“I’ve already spoken to her. She really wants to see you and said to come by anytime. So, I thought maybe we could apparate over there when we’re finished. Or we can wait a few more days if you want to,” he rambles. He shakes his head frantically, before he even realizes it and it surprises him that he apparently really wants to go to the Manor.

“Well then, eat up,” Potter says with a big smile on his face. But Draco cannot stomach another bite. He is nervous now, fidgeting in his seat, looking at his reflection in a spoon and flinching.

“You look perfectly fine,” he says reassuringly. Draco shakes his head sadly and looks at his clothes that are, although once costly, worn and faded now.

“Do you want to go shopping first?” Draco shrugs. He doesn’t have any money to pay for new clothes however much he might need them. Money is not an issue at JTW and he doesn’t even know if he still has any money in his vault and he has absolutely no idea if and how he can access it, should it still be there.

“Let me pay quickly and then I will take you to the most expensive shop I know,” Potter says smirking. But Draco shoots out a hand and grabs Potter around the wrist, willing him to look at him. When their eyes lock, he gives a barely visible shake of his head.

“Oh, come off it,” Potter says, “I’m filthy, stinking rich, I can afford it. I maybe not as rich as you are, but I could be if I agreed to sit model for action figures, like people are constantly requesting of me.” He chuckles. “Anyway, if it really bothers you, you can pay me back, when you’re better. I’ll even save the receipt.”

Ten minutes later they leave for the shop. Draco is surprised to find it actually half way decent. The assistant obviously knows Potter and doesn’t seem to be amused about him being there with another man. When he glares at Draco, he barely suppresses a snort. He might be a teeny tiny bit depressed and may have a touch of PTSD, but the smirk he flashes towards the assistant can simply not be helped.

Even though, of course, there isn’t a chance in hell that Potter would ever be able to land him. Come to think of it, he finds it quite offending that the assistant would think otherwise.

He tries on different outfits and all of them are nice, but even though Potter has offered to let him pay the money back, he is not going to take any of them. Malfoys don’t borrow money, is what his father had always said, and although he is trying not to live by his standards anymore, seeing where they have led him, he cannot shake all of them.

Potter says stuff like “Oh, that one is cool.” or “I like this one.” but Draco shakes his head every time. Let Potter think that the clothes aren’t up to his standards, he thinks. Unfortunately, Potter sees straight through him, and how exactly the otherwise thick git does it is beyond him, because after a while he says, “We’ll take them all.” Draco grabs his arm again, looking at him pleadingly and shaking his head.

“I thought you wanted to see your mother,” he says and then proceeds to throw a bag at him and snaps, “Change!” When Draco steps out of the changing room, Potter gives him a thorough once over. “Don’t you look nice,” he says teasingly. Draco blushes and when he looks up, he notices the assistant giving him the stink-eye. _Well, at least one good thing came of this trip_, he thinks.

They apparate to the Manor then. Draco has almost forgotten how big it is and how long the way from the gate to the front door is. He finds himself grabbing Potter’s hand for support. And Potter squeezes his hand in reassurance and only releases it when they are standing in front of the door about to knock.

The elf appears within seconds and tells them that his mother is awaiting them in the gardens. They have a choice of either walking around the house or through it, but when Potter tenses at the prospect of stepping foot over the threshold, Draco pulls him towards the little path that leads towards the back of the house.

Upon seeing his mother, the waterworks start again. For someone who is so keen on appearances as himself, Draco thinks, he is crying an awful lot these days. And in front of an awful lot of people. But his mother doesn’t care, of course, not about him crying and not about Potter’s presence. They hug and she kisses him again and again.

“I’m so happy to see you,” she says teary eyed. Draco wants to tell her he loves her, that he misses her and that he misses his father, but he can’t quite bring himself to say the words and then again, he is sure that his mother knows all of this. When she doesn’t press him, but instead just accepts that after all that he has been through he is doing the best he can.

They end up sitting next to each other on the sofa in the conservatory, his mother and Potter chat while he lays his head into her lap and lets her stroke his hair. Potter tells her about all the changes in the Ministry and Draco learns that even though he doesn’t work there anymore; Weasley still does.

It feels good to be back in his childhood home, despite all the bad memories he connects with certain parts of the house. Time passes without him really noticing it until Potter says around half past seven that they need to get going. He shakes his head frantically. He isn’t prepared to leave his mother behind again. Potter sends a sad smile towards him and says, “I’m sorry, Draco. I can’t break you out of St. Mungo’s. But we can come back next week, if you want to.” He rubs his hands across his face, but gets up reluctantly and hugs his mother goodbye.

Next to their other activities, they now also visit the Manor regularly every Saturday. And sometimes when Draco looks especially grim they visit her in between. The more he sees his mother and the more he sees in general, the better he feels. Still nothing has happened that has sparked the urge to talk yet. He is still waiting for something that is worth talking about and he thinks that merely getting out of JTW isn’t enough.

* * *

When summer draws nearer Potter comes with bad news. “Ron and Hermione are getting married soon,” he says and Draco raises an eyebrow at him, unsure what exactly Potter is trying to tell him.

“Ron wants to go on a little trip with some of his mates before,” he continues and Draco still can’t quite see where this is heading. “I won’t be coming around here for a week.” Oh. Well, that sucks. How exactly is he going to survive a whole week on hospital food again? And how is he supposed to pass his time?

But when Potter is actually gone, Draco realizes that he doesn’t have to kill his time alone after all. While he is painting a gloomy picture the first afternoon without Potter, because that is exactly how he is feeling, he suddenly hears a knock on the door. In comes Hermione Granger. Draco’s eyes widen in surprise, but she just gives him a polite nod and wanders over to Potter’s armchair. He has called her every dirty name in the book and still Potter has got her to visit him. What kind of a fucking saint is this woman?

Draco hates every second of it. Shame nearly burns a whole into his stomach, he knows he has to apologize, but the words don’t come, just like they never come these days.

“Hi Draco,” Granger says calmly, smiling politely, “I hope it is okay that I just came in.” Draco nods and just like that she starts to chat away in very similar fashion to Potter. _These Gryffindors are a chatty lot_, Draco thinks. It doesn’t take long and he knows more than he ever wanted to know about her wedding plans, how they are going to hold it at the Burrow (whatever that is), who is going to come, and how sad she is that so many of their friends cannot come anymore. Draco bows his head in shame. Granger prattles on.

“I can’t say that I especially like you or that you weren’t a dick at Hogwarts,” she says at some point, somewhat out of the blue. She surprises Draco into an inelegant snort and he can feel his ears heat with embarrassment. “But I have also seen what your and your family’s connection to Voldemort has taken from you. It must have been horrible. We always had each other, were prepared to die for each other. You didn’t have that,” she continues. He looks up at her in wonder. What is it with these Gryffindor’s who are so ready to forgive? Then he frowns, because there had been people prepared to die for him or rather one person, singular. Yet he is no less grateful to have her.

“I mean, you had your mother. Harry told me all about what she did for you and by extension for Harry in the forest.” The frown melts off his face again. He looks at her and blushes because there isn’t really anything he could do right now to make her understand, that he is sorry, that he has changed long before the war had even ended.

“Speaking of Harry,” she continues as if that was a natural continuation of the conversation. “I’m glad he found you.” He shoots her a disbelieving look.

“No, I’m serious. I really am glad.” She falls silent for several moments before she speaks again. She looks into the distance as if she can still see it before her eyes. “It was bad after the war. He drifted. We worried about him a lot. He broke up with Ginny, quit the Aurors, didn’t talk, apparently didn’t sleep, because he looked like shit. Seriously. He was seriously depressed and sometimes he had these intense panic attacks. Don’t get me wrong he isn’t fine now, but I feel like he is getting there.” Well, good for Potter then, he thinks, but what’s he got to do with any of this.

“He makes plans now. Most of them revolve around you and where he is going to take you next, but that’s a real improvement. A few days ago, he said that he’s thinking about applying for university. I’m really thankful for that. Thank you, Draco, for getting him there.” He blushes again. He hasn’t really done anything and it feels weird to be thanked for something he hasn’t done. Granger on the other hand laughs.

“Don’t get me wrong, Ron still hates your guts. And so do most of the Weasley men.” He snorts again. Some things simply don’t change.

“I don’t know what is going on between you two exactly. Are you friends? Is there more?” This time heat explodes all over his face, his neck, his chest, this isn’t a blush, this is Draco the super volcano exploding all over the fucking place. He shakes his head frantically. Granger has the nerve to smile at him knowingly. “There are two things I want to tell you before we become friends or anything resembling that.” He gawks at her. Who has ever said anything about being friends? And how did she conclude that they needed to be friends? Just because Potter shows up at the ward now and then, doesn’t mean that Draco has to become friends with his friends, does it? Then again, now and then isn’t really an accurate description of how often Potter visits him nowadays. And hasn’t Granger just hinted that there might be more between them? Maybe Potter is in love with him. Though, he cannot really fathom why he would be. It’s not like they know each other that well. Because it’s not like Draco talks to him. Before he has any time to ponder her words any more she rambles on.

“Harry is not as strong as he may seem to you. He has been through so much. Has he told you about his family?” Draco nods. “Have you noticed how until this day, he isn’t really aware of how bad the abuse really was?” He nods again. “I hate these horrible people. They tried to beat the wizard out of him, so to speak. Then his only ever real father figure, his one shot at a real home, dies only two years after he has met him for the first time.” Draco looks at the floor, ashamed that it was his aunt who was responsible for the death of Harry’s godfather. “He has never had anyone for himself who really loved him.” And now he can hear her sniffling. His eyes sting as well. He has heard some of this from Potter by now and even though he has been furious at times about the way he has been treated, it is true that Potter himself doesn’t really have a grasp of how bad it was. And it sounds so much worse hearing it from Granger than hearing it from Potter who’s always seemed detached and unaffected to a certain degree.

“It’s the same with Ron and me. He’s our best friend and we both love him like a brother, but we have this whole relationship that he isn’t part of. It’s hard for him, even when he tries to hide it, it’s hard. If you want to be friends with him, or more…” He shoots her a glare. “Don’t look at me like that Draco!” And she glares back. “If you want to be friends with him, or more, you have to look out for him, because he can’t.” And how exactly is he going to manage that, when Potter is currently looking out for him, because he isn’t able to himself. It takes a few moments before Granger is able to continue. She pulls a tissue out of her pocket and dabs at her eyes, then she clears her throat and breathes deeply.

“Second, Ron and his brothers will get over it. And also, they all, and when I say all of them, I mean Harry as well, could use some fashion advice from you.” She winks at him and the atmosphere between them lifts.

He goes on painting and she goes on telling him about everything and anything. After a while he decides that he might grow to like her at some distant point in the future. He picks up a new canvas and she follows him into the storage room where some of his paintings are stored and compliments him on them. Well, maybe he might grow to like her at a not quite so distant point in the future. He starts the new painting while he listens to her.

The night after Granger’s visit he lies in bed awake at night, thinking about all that she has said about Potter. He has thought once or twice that he has never really tried to get to know Potter. But even now, that they see each other almost every day, he still doesn’t know him. And that is even though Potter has done little else than talk and talk and talk at him for weeks, or months even. Draco doesn’t know. He feels rotten for not trying harder. Especially now that Potter spends so much time with him, when he has been so ready to forgive Draco and when he has been trying his best to help him through his issues. He concludes that that has to end now. Granger implied that there was something more between them and as she hasn’t met Draco before today that could only be because she has seen it in Potter which in turn means that Potter has probably developed feelings for him. Granger said that he needed to look out for him and that is what he is going to do by ending whatever it is that is growing between them. Because even though it helps him to get out and have Potter’s company it is not fair to lead him on. Potter should focus on someone who reciprocates his feelings and Draco certainly isn’t that person. It is nice how Potter is looking after him, but it should have been clear for him from the beginning that Draco would never like him like that. If he lets this continue, Potter will get hurt, he might even get hurt now, but surely the longer it drags on the worse it is going to get.

* * *

In the time of Potters absence, Granger comes by every day. Most of the time she just sits in Potter’s armchair and tells him all kinds of things, like how to properly clean your teeth and how to bake her favorite cake. One day she takes him out for coffee and cake and just like Potter did, she leaves her piece to him when she sees how much he enjoys it. Gryffindors, apparently, are nice like that. All the while she keeps up her incessant chatter, but she is pleasant enough. And she is smart, so he comes to the conclusion that in another lifetime they might even have been friends.

When she tells him one day that this is going to be her last visit, he pulls her along to his painting. A small gasp escapes her when she realizes that he has been painting her portrait while she has been sitting in Potter’s armchair.

“Wow, Draco, this is beautiful,” she says sincerely. He blushes a little and sends her a small smile. Then he takes the portrait off the easel and holds it out for her.

“No, I can’t accept that.” She takes a step back raising her hands. “You have put so much work into it, you should keep it.” He takes a step towards her and shoves the canvas towards her again. She takes the painting then, blushing slightly.

“Thank you,” she says and then she takes a step towards him and hugs him. “I’m sorry too, Draco,” she continues, “For everything that has happened to you. Just because we were on opposite sides does not mean you suffered any less.” She turns to leave and just before she opens the door, she stills and adds, “Just so we’re clear, I’m not sorry for punching you in the face. You deserved that.” Draco looks after her, stunned, and she winks at him before finally leaving the room.

When the door closes behind her, he laughs. She is right, of course, he had deserved to be punched and he is glad that she has interpreted the portrait as what it was intended to be, an apology. Strangely her forgiveness means more to him now that he knows that she hasn’t forgotten what he has done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. I hope you enjoyed reading this.
> 
> Comments and kudos are as always greatly appreciated and highly encouraged!
> 
> Thank you!


	4. Can You Feel My Heart? Pt. 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it just me or is it hot in here? 
> 
> Enjoy.

Potter comes by the next day looking even more tired than on one of his dark days. He looks drawn and the circles under his eyes are of a deep violet color. He hasn’t shaved. Or he might have at some time, because the stubble on his chin is uneven. His clothes are rumpled and there are a few stains on his shirt. Draco looks up from his bed, where he has been sketching, still determined to make it clear to him that he doesn’t want to see him anymore.

Potter closes the door and instead of walking further into the room he leans against it. “So, has Hermione given you the ‘Harry is more fragile than you think he is’ speech?” he asks without further greeting. Draco nods. He grunts, annoyed. “Well yes, that has happened once or twice. I guessed as much when Ron asked me if we were ‘shagging’.” He uses air quotes to indicate that this isn’t his wording. He looks grim and suddenly it hits Draco that Potter knows exactly what is going to happen now. His suspicions are confirmed when Potter says, “So, I guess this,” he makes a circular gesture with one hand, “isn’t going to continue, is it?”

Draco looks at him with big eyes. Of course, this isn’t going to continue now that Potter has obviously developed feelings for him. And if Draco has had any doubt before now, the way Potter stands before him, looking broken and dejected, just strengthens his belief that it is best to end things now before they get too close. It isn’t because he loathes the Prat but because he feels that it is only fair. After all that Potter has done for him and his mother and probably even for his father, it is the only decent option to break it off now.

But instead of shaking his head, like he intends to, his body moves of its own accord, off the bed and towards Potter, and flings itself into Potter’s arms. Draco kisses him fiercely and after a second or two of shocked stillness, Potter’s arms lock around him and he kisses him back just as ferociously. It feels like nothing Draco has ever felt before.

Despite the war Draco has managed to kiss the odd guy, and girl for that matter, but it had never felt like this. He is hard instantly, painfully so, and his hands wander over Potter’s body, from his hair to his back, to his stomach and back to his arse, he feels that this is very much mutual. He grabs Potter’s hips and pulls him close, grinding into him and eliciting the sweetest moans that shoot sparks up and down his spine. He is surprised at his body’s reaction to this frantic snogging and rutting. Lately, he has felt so broken, so governed by his dark thoughts, that he has assumed that his body wouldn’t function this way anymore. But this is bliss. Suddenly, there seems to be something else, besides the dark that has been looming over him for the past months. He feels ready to lose himself in this new sensation, to leave behind his demons in order to do this. All day, every day.

It is when his hands fly to the front of Potter’s jeans, rip them open and curl around his throbbing cock that he is suddenly shoved back. Hurt flashes across his face. Doesn’t Potter want this after all? His body certainly does. He looks disheveled, flushed, pupils dilated with desire, he is panting and his cock sticks hard and leaking out of his torn trousers. Draco stumbles back but Potter holds him at arm’s length, refusing him his retreat. His hurt and confusion turn into anger. How dare he refuse him? How dare this prat take this away from him? The only thing that has made him feel anything for the past months and the Prat decides to take it from him.

“I’m sorry, Draco,” he pants, “I want to, Merlin knows I do. But I can’t.” Draco begins to struggle against Potter’s grip on his shoulders. He feels hot embarrassment and all he can think of is to flee this situation. His eyes dart across the room, looking anywhere but at Potter as he struggles to get the Prat’s hands off himself. But Potter doesn’t budge. He doesn’t let him go, instead he shakes him softly. “Look at me, Draco,” he demands. And although he wants to do nothing less, his eyes lock with Potter’s. He steps closer to Draco again; his hands wander to Draco’s hair and he gently pulls him forward until their foreheads touch. “I can’t take advantage of you like this. When you are feeling better, I will gladly do nothing else for as long as you let me. But right now, you have to focus on yourself.” Fucking Gryffindor. He leans in for another tender and way too short kiss before he says, “And now excuse me, I have to use the facilities to take care of some business.” Draco snorts as Potter awkwardly rights his pants and exits the room.

It is only when the door has closed that he realizes that he has quite the problem himself. He hurries off towards his en-suite bathroom, rips down his pants unceremoniously and starts stroking himself. He doesn’t remember the last time he has had a hard-on and he only realizes how much he has missed wanking when his stiff, warm cock rests in his hands. For a second, he thinks about drawing it out, teasing himself for a moment, enjoying the delay of his orgasm, but if Potter finds him anywhere but in his room, he will know exactly what he has been doing. He certainly can’t have that.

His head is full of images of Potter, pupils dilated making his eyes seem almost black, flushed skin, the feel of the hot, velvety skin of Potter’s cock against his palm, the moans that escaped him, the look of pure want in his eyes when he pulled away. Within mere moments the pressure starts building, his balls draw up and he comes in long white spurts all over the sink, all the while one word is reverberating through his brain. _Harry._

When he looks at himself in the mirror afterwards, he blushes furiously. Has he just wanked to the memory of kissing Potter? He couldn’t be any more glad for the privacy of his own head right now.

He quickly cleans away the physical evidence of his indiscretion and goes back out into his room. Fortunately, Potter isn’t back yet from his own wank. He sits down in his favourite armchair by the window and resumes his sketching, doing his best to look like nothing has ever happened. When Potter re-enters the room, however, he cannot keep the smirk off his face. Potter blushes an impressive shade of red instantly, but meets his gaze head on.

“You don’t have to be a prick about this,” he grumbles, attempting a scowl and failing miserably. “Do you want to go for a piece of cake?” Draco is out of his chair within the second.

* * *

The reintroduction of the art of wanking into Draco’s admittedly quite dull life changes everything. Well, a lot anyway. It is as if his body is making up for lost time. He is hard almost constantly. The memory of kissing Potter keeps flashing before his eyes at the most inconvenient of times, making his cock twitch in his pants during meals or worse during his silent therapy sessions. There is something good about it though. His sleeping pattern improves considerably. He is more rested than he has been since before the Dark Lord’s return to power. Being around Potter, however, is getting harder and harder. They seem to be touching accidentally all the time and he is painfully hard half of the time. Potter seems to have the same problem, as Draco can hear his strained breathing and see him fiddling with his pants. Once or twice Potter has taken a long bathroom break, doubtlessly putting in a quick wank.

For a while, Draco relishes in his reawakened sexuality and enjoys reacquainting himself with his body in that way. But eventually the growing tension between himself and Potter, the constant accidental touches, every whiff he catches of Potter’s cologne, every heated stare and especially Potter’s barely audible, strained groans leave him frustrated and to a certain degree cranky. And since all of this is Potter’s fault, naturally, like so many other things, he doesn’t feel guilty in the least when he starts putting the moves on him, even though Potter has told him that nothing would happen between them as long as Draco wasn’t out of here. He makes a habit out of greeting Potter in various stages of undress and their touches become less accidental. Potter’s groans become more strained and more audible, his bathroom breaks more frequent. Yet he refuses to initiate anything.

One day they sit in a café and Draco makes a show of licking the sticky, chocolaty remnants of his cake from his spoon. He is satisfied to see that Potter has trouble finishing a sentence and he can’t quite be sure, but it seems like he is drooling a little. He slips one shoe off and while he keeps sucking on his spoon, hollowing his checks, groaning pleasurably, he slides his foot up Potter’s calf. He pulls the spoon from his mouth with an audible pop, then darts out his tongue to lick some crumbs from his lip and is very satisfied when he hears an almost silent “Fuck” leave Potter’s lip. His foot travels upwards and then along Potter’s thigh and when he arrives at Potter’s crotch he can feel a distinct hardness there. He winks at Potter, while gently massaging his cock through the fabric of his trousers.

Suddenly, Potter pushes his chair back violently. The sound of wood scraping along tiles is loud in the small café. Several heads turn towards them when Potter says, “Stop that, Draco!” He glares at Draco, gets up from his chair and walks away funnily towards the restrooms. Draco probably would have laughed, if he wasn’t painfully hard himself. Like so many times before when he has been with Potter. His frustration is slowly reaching its boiling point.

When Potter comes back, Draco scowls at him, his arms are crossed in front of his chest. He hasn’t finished his cake and he doesn’t intend to. After a few seconds of glaring at Potter, he feels like the Prat has received his message and looks out of the window. He refuses to look at him again. Potter starts babbling inane stories, but Draco tries to just block him out. It seems that he has to revert to more extreme measures. Potter doesn’t stand a chance.

Over the next few days he tries his best to bother Potter as much as possible. He picks up Yoga, or something resembling that. Basically, he just makes it a habit to greet Potter with his butt in the air. Once or twice he decides that he urgently has to exit the room just as Potter enters it and squeezes past him, brushing his hard cock against him. He knows that Potter is half mad, when he is barely able to finish his sentences one day. And it is this day that he senses his chance to finally make something happen.

Draco is painting some obscene painting that leaves very little to the imagination, while Potter tries to tell him some story about his house elf which Draco doesn’t pay any attention to, because it is really hard to comprehend it, when his balls feel heavy and achy and that Potter keeps trailing off doesn’t help either. He cannot believe his luck, when Schmendrick peaks his head through the door asking to speak to Potter for a few minutes.

When he is alone in his room, he quickly arranges the armchair so that it faces the door and rips off his pants, throwing them into a ruffled heap next to the chair. His cock is already leaking, when he gets the lube out of his nightstand. He positions himself into the armchair in a way that makes sure that Potter will be able to see absolutely everything when he re-enters the room. The thought that someone besides Potter might come through that door doesn’t even cross his mind. Instead he starts stroking himself leisurely, whimpering pathetically when his hand connects with his cock for the first time. He is beyond turned on already and knows that he isn’t going to last, so Potter better hurry the fuck up.

When the door opens and Potter steps inside, he freezes in the doorframe for a second. “Fuck, Draco,” he croaks and quickly closes the door behind himself. Draco has pulled his shirt up, so that Potter can see his chest and stomach and lets one hand travel down, past his nipples, squeezing one of them lightly, his breath hitching, while his other hand is still on his cock. With every stroke he pulls the foreskin taut over the swollen head of his cock and little beads of precome run down the shaft. He flicks his thumb over one of them unsure whether to use it as extra lubrication or, well fuck it all to hell why not, he raises his thumb to his mouth and tastes it, his eyes never leaving Potter’s. He can see him swallowing and palming at his crotch. Draco takes his cock back into his hand, while the other still travels lower and when he arrives at his cock he switches hands and lets the well-lubricated hand that he has formerly been stroking himself with wander down towards his entrance. He circles the firm rim of muscles for a few seconds, before he pushes one finger inside himself.

“Fuck,” Potter groans again. His eyes are black and they flick between the point where Draco’s finger is disappearing into his body, up to his cock that is leaking in earnest now, up to his eyes and back down again. His mouth is hanging open slightly and his breathing is ragged.

When his finger slides in and out of himself with ease, he adds a second finger and now Potter slumps against the door. Apparently, unable to remain standing without support. Draco curls his fingers up a little and his whole body convulses with pleasure when he brushes against his sweet spot. Potter whimpers, his eyes now glued to Draco’s opening. Any second now, Draco thinks, any second and Potter will charge forward and finally touch him, fuck him, use that slippery, hot hole that Draco has prepared only for him. But Potter doesn’t move and Draco growls in frustration, because he is nearing the edge, his balls draw up, they feel impossibly tight already, when all he wants is to come with Potter inside him. He teases himself a little more, brushing against his sweet spot a couple of times more, before he cannot take it anymore. He needs to come and when Potter refuses to make him, he is going to put on a show for Potter and probably ruin him for anyone else. He is Draco Malfoy after all. Potter will be hard pressed to find someone better than him and by the look that Potter is giving him he probably doesn’t even want to. Still, the stubborn fuck doesn’t move.

He grabs his cock just a fraction tighter and starts targeting his prostate with every upward stroke, tremors wreck his body at every touch. His orgasm approaches quickly and when it hits him, he arches his back, shooting long stripes of pearly white come across his hands and stomach and probably even floor and chair. Potter’s eyes have found his again and even when the most intense orgasm rips through him Draco doesn’t break eye contact.

He breathes heavily, feeling almost self-conscious until he sees Potter’s hand snaking towards the door handle. He shakes his head at him. The bastard is not going to run off to the loo now. He has brought this on himself, he could have come together with Draco, buried inside his arse to the hilt, but he has chosen not to. So, tough luck.

He cleans himself off with a tissue and steps into his pants and walks over to Potter. While Draco’s breathing has almost returned to normal by now, Potter hasn’t recovered by one inch. He positions himself directly in front of Potter, their eyes lock and Draco reaches forward for the fly of Potter’s pants. Potter tries to step back, but only manages to hit his head on the door. Draco smirks, while he unbuttons the other man’s trousers and then lets them drop to pool around Potter’s ankles. He goes for his boxers next, careful not to touch Potter’s cock that is just as hard and leaking as Draco’s own had been a few minutes earlier.

He grabs Potter’s hand and wraps it around his cock, because if Potter refuses to touch him he sure as hell isn’t going to touch Potter. Let him get a taste of his own medicine. Potter’s breath hitches and he begins stroking himself immediately. Draco looks down at Potter’s cock, his own cock stirring with interest again, when he sees the head of it appear and then disappear again between the tight ring that Potter has formed with his fingers. He looks up into Potter’s eyes and he strokes his hands through his hair. Potter leans into the touch, his eyes fluttering closed. After a few seconds of stroking Potter’s surprisingly soft hair, he lets his hands roam under his shirt, flicking over his nipples. Potter whimpers and lets his head fall to Draco’s shoulder. It doesn’t take long until Potter’s movements become erratic. He stiffens suddenly and just as he starts gushing come into his fist, he whimpers, “Oh God, Draco.”

Draco decides to take advantage of the situation and grabs the hair in the nape of Potter’s neck, yanking his head up and kisses him filthily, his tongue fucking into Potter’s mouth the way he had wished to be fucked by him. Potter nearly sobs into his mouth and when he feels Potter swaying slightly he changes the pace of his kiss and makes it languid and almost sweet. They break apart and Draco watches Potter’s eyes flutter open. For a few seconds his eyes are warm, calm, contented even, but then Potter shuts down and his eyes fill with regret. Draco’s heart sinks. So, Potter doesn’t want him after all. He must have misunderstood him, misinterpreted the signs. Maybe there haven’t been any signs at all and Draco has made them all up in his head. He _is_ in a mental institution. So, maybe he really is crazy.

“I’m so sorry,” Potter says reaching out for him. He stumbles back, evading his touch. He is glad in that moment that he has put his pants back on. Potter looks ridiculous. He notices it even when this strange emotion clutches at his chest.

“No,” Potter says, nearly tripping over his trousers when he tries to step towards Draco. He bends down and pulls his pants up roughly, wincing slightly as his boxers scratch over his still sensitive cock. Draco retreats even further, glaring at Potter.

“No, stop that,” he says, “You know I want this. Hell, I’ve been running around with a fucking semi for the past two weeks because you keep torturing me.” Draco cannot help himself, he smirks at him. Potter huffs a small laugh.

“I want you, Draco, but not like this. This is not how I want my life to be. Or yours for that matter. I want to talk to you. I want to hear about your day, I want to laugh with you, I want to hear about your hopes and dreams and fears. And I want to bicker, I want to fight, I want you to tell me how stupid and uneducated I am and how my hair is appalling!” He rakes his hands through his hair as if to make a point and Draco’s smirk deepens. Potter is right, his hair is appalling. Yet it is also soft and warm and it smells intoxicatingly of Potter.

“I want you, Draco! Not this shell that you have become. You need to focus on yourself. You need to get better. This can’t happen again.” At that Draco scowls. Who does this prat think he is? Draco is a grown ass man and if he decides to divert his mind through fucking for a while then it’s nobody’s goddamn business. Especially not Potter’s.

“I won’t come back here, if you don’t stop this.” Draco’s scowl deepens into a glare and Potter steps forward, taking Draco’s face into his hands. “I cannot let you distract yourself from getting better. If my presence is distracting you, if it is preventing or even delaying your recovery then I need to keep away from you. However hard it may be.” He leans in and kisses Draco softly. “I’m going to give you a few days to think things over.” He strokes his thumb over Draco’s lower lip, before he turns around and makes to leave. Before he slips out of the door he says, “It’s up to you.” And then he is gone.

* * *

Even though it only takes Draco a couple of hours to think things over, as Potter has phrased it, Potter still doesn’t return for a week. One really long, dull week. Draco eats, paints, sits through his silent therapy sessions, wanks and sleeps. He uses his time to think about himself for the first time in what feels like forever. Potter is right, this isn’t how he has pictured his life to be. He does want to get out of here. He wants to see his mother when he pleases and not when Potter takes him. He wants to see Pansy and Blaise and Greg again. He wants to work and travel and, let’s face it, he wants to fuck Potter.

He feels better in a lot of ways. Foremost, he is sleeping the night through. He feels rested and now that Potter has taken to feeding him actual edible food (that has not been prepared in the St. Mungo’s kitchens) he feels strong and healthy and almost human. But he has no control over his life, whatsoever. It bugs him. It’s is so not the Malfoy way. As much as it pains him to admit it, even in the privacy of his own head, Potter is right. He needs to start working on himself. He needs to focus on his recovery.

Talking scares him, though. Writing, however, is something that he could consider. But he definitely is not ready to let someone read his thoughts. He starts to write anyway and when Schmendrick the nosy bugger sees it, he brings by a notebook for him. When Draco nods his thanks, he can see the hopefulness in Schmendrick’s eyes and feels the pressure of it. But he chooses not to think about it any further.

He breathes a sigh of relieve when Potter finally returns on Saturday to take him to his mother. They spend a quiet day at the Manor. His mother has one of the house elves come to cut Draco’s hair which admittedly has looked awful for the past couple of weeks. After his haircut he lounges on a small sofa, his head in his mother’s lap while she strokes his hair and he stuffs his face with all the little delicacies the house elves have prepared. There is yet another reason to get out of JTW as soon as possible – food. To eat whatever he likes, whenever he likes and to throw anything resembling the rubbish he is fed at JTW back into the cook’s face.

It gets harder and harder to leave the Manor with every visit. Potter says that he wants to leave about twenty times, before Draco gets up from the sofa reluctantly and kisses his mother goodbye. When they are back at St. Mungo’s Draco feels down. He sits on his bed, head bend, looking at his hands. He feels the matrass dip beside him, when Potter sits down next to him.

“Have you thought about what I’ve said?” he says gently. Draco nods.

“Do you want me to come back tomorrow?” Another nod.

“Are you going to stop torturing me?” Again, a nod and a small smirk. Potter chuckles, pulls Draco into a weird side hug and kisses him on the side of his head roughly.

“I’m going to show you something cool tomorrow,” he says. Draco looks up, into Potter’s eyes and they share a warm, open smile.

* * *

Draco finds himself in the foyer of Potter’s London house the next day. It’s confusing. Hasn’t Potter been the one to say that whatever they had been doing had to stop? Why would he bring him here if he didn’t want to fuck? Potter leads him into the sitting room where they sit down on a large, grey sofa. Draco looks about the room. It has been furnished without finesse, but it is homey and warm and exactly the way he would have pictured Potter’s home. Harry’s home.

The furniture is mismatched, some of it is worn down, but he has a feeling that he has chosen every piece with care. There are a lot of pictures. There is one of his parents on their wedding day, twirling around, laughing at the camera ever so often. There is one of four scruffy teenagers, sitting together, arms thrown over each other’s shoulders. There are the obligatory pictures of Weasley and Granger. One shows them on their wedding day. Granger, especially, looks radiant, almost overwhelmed with happiness. There are pictures of his other friends. Longbottom and a couple of other Gryffindors whose names he cannot remember. One photo shows Potter with his arms around the Weasley girl. An emotion surges through him that he refuses to name and he quickly looks over to the next photo which shows a young blonde woman with hair almost as fair as Draco’s own – Luna Lovegood. He averts his gaze in shame as the image of her locked up in the Manor’s dungeons flashes before his eyes. There is nothing he could ever do to repent for his sins. The pain he has caused will never be redeemed. Who is he even kidding? Why even try to get better? There can never be anything for him in this post-war world. Wizarding society won’t forgive him because, how could they?

Potter interrupts his thoughts by nudging him gently and pointing to some sort of black box that is situated on a board, facing the sofa.

“That’s a telly,” he says. Draco looks up at him in confusion. He has never heard of such a contraption and it might be dangerous. Who knows?

“It shows pictures that move like a magical photo or a portray. But the people in there can’t see you, or talk to you,” he continues. Draco’s brows furrow a little, unsure why Potter is telling him all this. He seems to have guessed Draco’s thoughts because he says, “I’m just answering all the questions Ron asked when Hermione and I showed him the telly for the first time.” He chuckles lightly, looking into the distance, apparently reliving a happy memory. He clears his throat and then continues.

“It’s kind of like a memory, without the Pensive. And, of course, it’s not real. It’s real people playing roles, like in the theatre.” He looks at Draco questioningly and Draco nods in confirmation that he has understood what Potter has just told him. Still not convinced that this telly thingy isn’t dangerous.

No explanation, however, could have ever prepared him for what happens when Potter turns the thing on. There is a lion roaring and even though Potter has told him that nothing would happen he grabs Potter’s hand fearfully. Potter pulls him close and snuggled together they watch the movie. It’s a funny movie about a blonde woman in some kind of love triangle. Draco laughs when something funny happens, and when the people in the movie are desperate he struggles to hold back the tears. Potter doesn’t show much reaction, so he gathers that Potter has probably seen the movie before and that he is probably reacting too strongly. But Potter doesn’t comment, he just pulls Draco closer whenever his emotions threaten to get the best of him.

When the movie is over, Potter says, “You may have noticed, I’m kind of a sucker for romantic comedies.” He blushes a little. Draco doesn’t know what a romantic comedy is nor does he care, because he has enjoyed the movie.

“Do you want to watch another?” Draco nods enthusiastically. Harry shows him different tapes and he chooses one. This film isn’t as happy as the last one and Draco finds himself crying through half of it. Potter doesn’t comment and the few times that he looks up at him his eyes are suspiciously glassy as well. When the second movie is over as well, Draco feels mortified when he sees the wet patch where he has cried into Potter’s shirt. But he doesn’t comment. Instead he feeds him sandwiches in the basement kitchen.

As Draco munches on his sandwich he feels kind of light, like a burden has been lifted from his shoulders and he concludes that watching a movie can be kind of cathartic, because the hopelessness he has felt earlier in the evening when he looked at Potter’s photos is gone, although he suspects the effect to be temporary. Or maybe he is overinterpreting things. Whichever way, he decides that he loves movies. It also makes him doubt his former affiliations even more strongly, because who could ever want to kill of people capable of inventing movies?

“Did you like the movies?” Potter asks. Draco nods, smiling brightly. “Good, I was thinking of taking you out to the cinema some time. You up for that?” Draco shrugs, because whatever is a cinema? “Trust me, you’re going to love it. There is lots of popcorn and the like.” Well, that sounds promising. When Potter sees the expression on his face the fucking prat has the nerve to laugh. Damn it all to hell, the Prat knows Draco way too well by now.

* * *

A couple of days later Potter takes him to the cinema just like he has promised. He is unsure what to expect when they arrive at the pretty insignificant building. Except for a few movie posters the façade doesn’t give any clue as to what is awaiting Draco beyond the large front doors. It turns out the cinema is basically just a much bigger TV. They stop at a display that shows the posters of the different movies and the time they start. Draco gets to choose the movie and as he hasn’t heard of any of them, he just picks the one with the most artful poster.

“Are you sure about this? That’s a scary movie,” Potter says. Draco glares at him, because why would he have chosen the movie if he didn’t want to see it.

“I’m just saying,” he sounds apologetic, “You haven’t even gotten used to the Metro lion and every time something unexpected comes up, you jump. There is going to be a lot of that.” Yes, well, it probably would be best to choose another movie, but now he has already glared at Potter and it would be kind of embarrassing to change his mind. He just hopes that the two tons of sweets that they buy next will distract him enough to get through this movie.

In the end, it isn’t as bad as it could have been. Sure, he is too scared to even consider any of his popcorn and he ends up almost in Potter’s lap, but it really could have been worse. He is not entirely sure how exactly, but he is sure of it. Potter wraps his arm around Draco, that’s nice, so the situation has an upside to it.

When the movie is over, he doesn’t let go of Potter’s hand when they go outside, jumping at every unexpected noise. He comes to the conclusion that scary movies are probably not for him. Potter doesn’t need to know that.

They walk for a while and Draco feels himself calming down. But suddenly a cat throws over a few garbage cans in a dark alley to his right and he nearly jumps out of his skin. Potter, ever the Saviour, pulls him towards himself quickly and wraps his arms around him. It takes some time until he gets his fear under control. When his breathing has evened out and his heart has slowed down a bit, Potter steps back and takes his face into his hands.

“I was right about the movie, wasn’t I?” he asks gently and even though Draco knows that he isn’t gloating he has to fight the urge to glare. He nods instead. Potter smiles at him warmly for a few seconds before Draco can see a glint igniting in his eyes.

“Don’t forget, you’re a wizard, Draco. A rampage Muggle with a knife can’t harm you.” He smirks down at Draco from his two inches of height advantage, obviously giving into the urge to mock him. And ohh! This is embarrassing. He averts his eyes and lets his head fall onto Potter’s shoulder, banging it against it lightly a couple of times. Potter laughs and despite himself, Draco laughs with him.

When they continue on their way he feels immensely relieved, but still he grabs Potter’s hand and holds onto it until they reach the restaurant where they have dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may have noted, the total number of chapters has gone up. I decided to divide the last chapter into two parts because it's quite long and I'm not entirely prepared to have this all out there and finished with. 
> 
> Comments and kudos as always are highly encouraged and very much appreciated and loved (seriously there is nothing better than checking your e-mails in the morning and discovering that you have a new comment).
> 
> ❤️❤️❤️


	5. Can You Feel My Heart? Pt. 2

It’s another couple of weeks before everything turns to shit. During this time, they still visit different sights and Muggle attractions, they go to the Manor and to the cinema almost every week, but now Potter chooses the movies most of the time. Draco doesn’t try to get into Potter’s pants anymore, even though he still wants to. His recovery doesn’t make any progress, except that he still writes into his notebook. He puts it under his pillow at night, because he isn’t ready to share his thoughts with anyone. He thinks about talking a lot in these weeks. Twice he has opened his mouth and then closed it again during his therapy sessions changing his mind last minute. He still wants out of the Janus Thickey Ward, but he doesn’t feel ready. He is still too scared of the outside world and of what is buried deep inside himself, all those memories, thoughts and emotions that he has chosen to lock away. He still feels like he wouldn’t survive confronting all of that.

Then one day a letter arrives informing him of an impending questioning inside the Ministry of Magic. He isn’t particularly scared of the questioning because it is not like he is going to say anything, so let them ask. There is, however, one sentence that makes him furious.

_It will be necessary for your legal guardian Mr Harry James Potter to accompany you and be present during the proceedings of the questioning. _

His legal _what_ exactly? Is Potter the fucking Prat fucking kidding him? The wrath he is feeling is of biblical proportion. He knows that, even though he feels that organized religion is a sham and therefore wouldn’t indulge in religious imagery under normal circumstances. But this is different, just as it always is when it comes to Potter.

When the Prat saunters into his room that afternoon it is all he can do to refrain from punching him straight in the face. He figures that it wouldn’t do to punch his _legal guardian_ and just the thought of that word again makes him fume with rage. How dare he? Draco isn’t stupid, he knows that no member of the Wizengamot in his right mind would ever let Draco make any decisions of his own in the state he is in right now. For the whole time he has spent at JTW, he has known that he must have a legal guardian, but he has always figured that it would be his mother or his aunt Andromeda. Or some old sod from the Wizengamot or maybe even one of his former teachers. But Potter? How dare he apply for his guardianship without even talking to him about it. Or at him for that matter. Again, it hits him how inconvenient his silence is at times. How come it hadn’t occurred to him when he stopped speaking. And when he sees Potter’s stupid face he opens his mouth, about to shout obscenities at him, when he realizes that at this moment Potter certainly isn’t worth his words. So, he shuts his mouth with an audible klick and glares at him.

Potter is clearly oblivious to what is going on with Draco, at least if his expression is anything to go by. “Hi Draco,” he says innocently, “What’s going on?” His glare deepens and he holds up the letter that is slightly crumpled in his right fist.

“What’s that?” Potter asks genuinely curious, still not quite catching on to Draco’s rage. He shoves the creased parchment under his nose and Potter reads. It takes ridiculously long and when he is finished he looks outraged instead of guilty. For a couple of seconds, Draco feels confused, that is until Potter speaks again.

“They want to question you? They know about your condition. How dare they?” he rants, “Don’t they have an ounce of common decency?” Draco merely rolls his eyes. Typical Potter to focus on the unimportant details. He knows he won’t talk, so he can only repeat, even if it is just to himself, let them ask. Let them waste their time. He snatches the parchment from Potters hand and flattens it on the nearest available surface, then he points to the offending lines. Potter has the decency to look flustered now. He scratches the back of his neck and drags the point of one foot across the floor, following it with his eyes. Draco crosses his arms in front of his chest and continues to glare at Potter. When he looks up again, his face is flushed.

“So… er,” he says, “You’ve noticed that?” He gives Draco a shaky, sheepish smile. Draco narrows his eyes and shoves Potter sharply. He has no intention of listening to Potter’s bullshit.

“Well, I probably should have told you about that, shouldn’t I?” he says, going for an apologetic smile. Draco’s glare doesn’t waver.

“What was I supposed to do? You didn’t even communicate with me, you weren’t getting any better. You were barely even interacting with me,” he suddenly explodes. He looks Draco in the eye, chest heaving, jutting his chin forward just the tiniest fraction and any hope of an apology that Draco might have had vanishes.

“What was I supposed to do?” Potter repeats. _Just because you say it twice, doesn’t make your point any more valid,_ Draco thinks viciously and keeps glaring at Potter.

“I needed to get you out of here. I needed to show you that there is something out there that’s worth getting back to,” he cries and then tries to calm himself by breathing deeply a couple of times.

“It was easy to get them to sign off on my guardianship. Only had to play the hero card twice,” he continues now smirking. Draco can feel a smile coming on, so he averts his gaze and then turns his back on Potter completely. He isn’t prepared to forgive him. He snatches the book he has been reading from his nightstand and goes over to the bathroom and locks himself in there. He slides to the floor with his back to the door and begins to read, ignoring all of Potter’s attempts to make him forgive him.

They keep this game of Draco locking himself in the bathroom or Draco ignoring Potter in some other way up, until the day of the questioning. Potter comes by early that day, but Draco is already sitting in his room ready to go. He has paid special attention to his hair today and has put on his best clothes. Thank god, Potter has taken him shopping this one time, otherwise he would have looked like a total nut job.

“Are you okay?” Potter asks, when he enters. Draco nods. What bad is going to happen to him today? Nothing, that’s what. He is going to go there and he is going to keep his mouth shut just as he has for the past months and that is going to be it. No need to worry about any of it. But Potter seems nervous and that in turn makes Draco’s stomach clench. He refuses to show any of it. So, he doesn’t take Potter’s hand when they make their way towards the Apparition Point. He doesn’t take Potter’s hand when they step into the Atrium at the Ministry either. Neither does he take Potter’s hand when they make it to the interrogation room at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. He does, however, take his hand when the Head of the department and two members of the Wizengamot calmly explain that Draco is going to be questioned under Veritaserum.

His head snaps around to Harry when they say it, he knows that his eyes are large and filled with fear. Potter looks outraged again. He makes to jump up from his chair in protest, but is hindered by Draco’s hand, that is clutching his own in a vice like grip.

“You cannot be serious,” he snaps, “I won’t let you dose him with Veritaserum!” He glares at the three ministry officials, but to no avail.

“I’m sorry Mr Potter, but I think you will find that your opinion doesn’t count here,” the Head of the DMLE says calmly and then turns to Draco. “Mr Malfoy, you have the choice to either drink the potion willingly or have it administered by force.” He conjures a glass of water, then rummages through his pocket and produces a small vial, filled with a clear potion. He adds a couple of drops to the water and pushes the water over to Draco.

He can feel the tears prickling behind his eyes, still holding Harry’s hand in an iron grip. He leans forward, takes the glass and gulps it down quickly, determined to get this over with as quickly as possible. He can feel the effect of the potion immediately. It is hard to describe, but as soon as the potion touches his tongue, he feels that his control over it is gone. He glances at Harry again with wide eyes and in the brief moment before they ask the first question he realizes that he has treated this without the due respect. When they start asking questions, his body answers on its own, without his permission and without hesitation. At first, his voice is rough and scratchy from disuse and one of his interrogators is nice enough to refill his glass with water. They give him some time to drink, to clear his throat a few times before they resume their questions.

They start easily enough and he manages to keep his face impassive, even though he feels violated. What is your name? – Draco Lucius Malfoy. When were you born? – 5 June, 1980. Who are your parents? – Lucius Abraxas Malfoy and Narcissa Malfoy, née Black. Where were you born? – At Malfoy Manor in Wiltshire, England. What is your favourite colour? – Green.

But soon they arrive at the juicy details and although he keeps his body perfectly still a war rages inside of him. Were you a Death Eater? – Yes. Did you willingly join the Death Eaters? – Yes and no. What does that mean? – I believed in the agenda of the Dark Lord for a long time. But by the time I took the Dark Mark I was coerced into it. How so? – The Dark Lord threatened to kill my parents. Did you try to kill Albus Dumbledore? – Yes. Did you succeed? – No. Why? – Because I couldn’t do it. Why? – Because I didn’t want to kill him. Why? – Because I didn’t want to kill anyone. Because I wanted the Side of the Light to win and I thought that they needed Dumbledore in order to achieve that. But you did let Death Eaters into the school, didn’t you? – Yes, I did. Why when you wanted the Side of the Light to win? – Because I had to have some kind of result to show the Dark Lord. Why? – Because, otherwise, he would have killed my parents. Did you recognise the Golden Trio when they came into Malfoy Manor? – Yes. Why didn’t you give them up to You-Know-Who? – Because I didn’t want them to die. Did you give your wand to Potter willingly? – Yes and no. What does that mean? – No, because I was scared to live without my wand with the Dark Lord present at the Manor. Yes, because I was willing to give him anything as long as it meant he stayed alive. Because you wanted him to kill You-Know-Who? – Yes. Is that all? – No. Why else did you want Potter to stay alive? – Because I care about him. Are you in love with Harry Potter? – Yes.

Hot tears threaten to spill down his face as he hears truths leave his mouth that he hasn’t even been aware of himself. But he refuses to let them fall, he refuses to avert his gaze from his interrogator, he refuses to show any indication of any kind of emotion. Years and years of training under his father finally pay off. The only sign of weakness he allows himself is to hold Harry’s hand and to squeeze it from time to time, when the questions become especially hard to answer, and to pull comfort from Harry squeezing his hand back.

The interrogation takes what feels like forever. They repeat the questions again and again as if they don’t trust their own potion. It is exhausting, but Draco refuses to show any signs of weariness. Eventually, he notices the effects of the potion lessen, when he doesn’t need to answer verbally anymore, but a nod or shake of the head suffices. And then it doesn’t take long until he isn’t compelled to answer at all. He sags a little after the first question that he doesn’t have to answer. His interrogators turn to each other and after a brief discussion they seem to conclude that they have gathered enough information.

“Mr Malfoy, you will be informed of the results of this questioning shortly,” says the Head of DMLE. They leave the room as quickly as they can, nodding at Potter, ignoring him.

He gets up from his chair, straightening his spine, but never letting go of Harry’s hand as they make their way out of the Ministry. They don’t apparate this time, but floo directly into Harry’s house.

As soon as they step out of the fire, Draco’s knees give way and he sags against Harry, who quickly envelopes him in his arms. “I’m so sorry, Draco,” he says and he picks him up and carries him over to the sitting room, to release him onto the sofa they sat on when they watched their first movies together. The tears that Draco has been holding back up until now are making their way down his cheeks freely now and uncontrollable sobs wreak his body. Harry holds him through all of it, whispering “I’m so sorry, so sorry.” again and again. Draco sits halfway on Harry’s lap, his face buried in the crook of Harry’s neck. All the while, Harry rocks him softly and murmurs into his ear.

At one point, the sobs stop and even the tears dry, but the feeling of having been violated doesn’t go away. He feels empty, scrubbed raw, as if every last one of his secrets has been cleaned out of him with a steel brush. Harry strokes his hair, when he looks up at him and their eyes lock, he knows what he needs and he knows that Harry won’t deny him today. He leans forward and presses his lips to Harry’s. Harry stiffens instantly and pulls back.

“Draco, no,” he says gently, but Draco only makes a whining sound in his throat and looks up at Harry with wide eyes. Draco grabs him by the collar and pulls him close. He kisses him again, but Potter still resists.

“No! We can’t. It’s not right,” he says, voice still gentle, eyes filled with pity. Fury slashes through Draco’s chest and he scrambles up from the sofa. He grabs the first thing that falls into his hands, a picture frame, and hurls it at Potter’s head. Having dismissed his wand earlier, Potter only manages to escape the frame by an inch.

“Draco,” he calls out, but Draco has already grabbed the next frame and hurls it at Potter. This time Potter is prepared for what is coming and avoids the frame easily. His wand is in his hand now and he casts two quick Reparos at the frames, only fuelling Draco’s anger. Another frame flies towards him and he deflects it with ease, making his way towards Draco with a couple of determined strides. He comes to a stop in front of him and takes him by the shoulders.

“I’m sorry you feel this way, Draco, but we can’t do this. It doesn’t change anything,” he says urgently. Draco hits his fist against Potter’s chest once, twice, until Potter pulls him close. He struggles against Potter’s grip and manages to bring a few inches between himself and the other man. They lock eyes, still for a moment, until Draco leans forward again and presses his lips against Harry’s again because he needs this. He needs to feel somethings other than this raw emptiness inside him. Potter knows everything about him now, he owes this to Draco. But the absolute bastard pulls away again.

“Draco,” he pleads and, of course, Draco knows that Potter is only trying to do the right thing, but he needs this. He needs the distraction and, damn it, he has wanted to do this with him for weeks. The prospect of being denied again together with everything else that has happened today lets the frustration rise inside of him. Why does everything always have to be so hard? Why does everything always have to be such a fucking struggle? Tears well in his eyes again, because how could his life be any more unfair, and he begins to struggle against Potter’s embrace again. Potter tries to keep him there, grabbing his arms, pulling him close, trying to somehow get Draco to calm down, but he won’t. He won’t because he can’t. For a moment it looks as if Potter is going to punch him but then he pulls Draco close with one big effort and kisses him. _Finally_, Draco thinks and kisses him back, running his tongue along Potter’s bottom lip and then dipping it inside, when Potter moans at the touch. They begin exploring each other’s mouths, nipping and biting, caressing and tasting each other. It is rough and angry and everything Draco has hoped for.

His hands fly to Potter’s shirt. A couple of buttons go flying as he yanks at it, desperate to get Potter naked as fast as he can. He moans into Potter’s mouth when he feels the feather light touch of his fingertips as they make their way beneath his shirt. He breaks their kiss, kissing along Potter’s jaw and down his throat instead and then kissing every inch of skin he can reach. All the while, Potter fumbles with his buttons, releasing one at a time and when he has reached the last one, his hands roam over Draco’s torso and then into his hair and he pulls Draco up, into another fierce kiss. For all his playing hard to get, he wants this just as much as Draco does and they both groan when their bare chests finally touch.

Suddenly, Potter fumbles with Draco’s belt, opening it and then releasing the button of his trousers, sneaking one strong, warm hand in there, curling his fingers around Draco’s cock. He bucks his hips in response, searching for friction, for release, at the same time kissing Potter fiercely, grazing his teeth across his plump lower lip. Potter seems to have released his own cock, because he lets go of Draco and instead slides his hot length against him, making him cry out. Both of Potter’s hands are on his butt now, pulling him close while he rubs himself against him.

Pleasure floods through him, his blood is rushing in his ears, he feels dizzy and disoriented, doesn’t know which way is up and which is down. All he can feel, taste, see, hear is Harry and it is exactly what he needs. When Harry urges him backwards, he follows until the backs of his knees hit the couch and they stumble onto it, into a heap of limbs. Potter catches himself before he crushes Draco and immediately resumes kissing him and rutting his hips against him.

Draco is desperate to get rid of their remaining clothes and whines when he can’t get his trousers past his ankles because he still has his shoes on. Harry kisses him deeply for a couple of seconds longer, before he gets up and helps Draco out of his trousers and gets rid of his own in the process.

And then they are gloriously naked on Harry’s sofa, bodies sliding against each other, each touch sending sparks of electricity through Draco’s body. He spreads his legs widely, willing Harry to understand what he wants without having to actually speak the words.

“Are you sure, Draco?” Harry says, hesitating, looking at him with unsure eyes. He is flushed from what they have been doing, his eyes are almost black with lust, yet he is apparently still ready to stop at any moment. He doesn’t know how to show him that he really wants this. He knows why Harry says what he is saying. He knows that he is only trying to protect Draco, but it is also kind of infuriating. Especially when he says, “Draco, this isn’t a good idea. We should stop this!” He growls in frustration and directs Harry’s hand to where he wants to be touched.

Harry complies then, muttering a low spell beneath his breath and then one slick finger brushes over his entrance. The touch sends electric sparks through him, making his cock twitch in anticipation. Harry slips the finger inside, after teasing him for a few seconds, and sets to work, opening Draco up for him, slowly and thoroughly. He takes an agonizingly long time, driving Draco to the brink of madness by kissing every inch of skin that he can reach. He licks one broad swipe from the base of his cock towards its head and then takes it into his mouth and starts sucking gently. It is the sweetest torture and Draco thinks about letting Harry continue and about spilling himself into his mouth, but he needs more. He tangles his hands into Harry’s messy mob of hair and pulls sharply. Harry gasps around his cock and complies, making his way up towards Draco slowly. They kiss languidly, tenderly and when Draco impatiently whines into Harry’s mouth, he finally pulls his fingers away and positions himself. He rubs the head of his cock against Draco’s hole and he would be embarrassed by the sounds that Harry draws from him, if he wasn’t already too far gone to care. And then Harry pushes in, excruciatingly slow, until he is buried as deeply as possible.

He kisses Draco and when he roams his hands over Harry’s body he can feel that every muscle in his body is strung tight with the effort to stay still, to give Draco time to adjust to the intrusion. A roll of Draco’s hips makes Harry whimper almost as if in agony, but he takes it as what it is intended to be, an instruction to move. He pulls out almost completely and drives his cock back into Draco’s body swiftly. He builds up a pace of swift long thrusts that has Draco’s vision blurring and his ears ringing. He leans forward, kissing Draco deeply, before he reaches around his legs and pulls Draco towards himself. His head slides down a couple of inches while his hips tilt upwards, making him curl in on himself and the angle of Harry’s thrusts change. The head of Harry’s cock brushes over his prostate almost immediately, making him cry out. Harry doesn’t falter in his rhythm of pulling out and driving back in, but now he catches Draco’s sweet spot on every stroke.

Draco looks down at where their bodies connect and wishes he could see Harry’s cock disappearing into his body. His own cock is rock hard, the tip an angry red, leaking copiously. He makes to touch himself but Harry bats his hand away and for a second Draco thinks that he wants him to come untouched, when a warm strong hand wraps around his cock and starts wanking him in time with Harry’s thrusts.

“You’re so beautiful, Draco,” Harry almost sobs and kisses him deeply. Draco tangles his hands in Harry’s hair again, stroking the soft strands, then taking his face into his hands, locking eyes with Harry. Harry leans into the touch and let’s his eyes flutter closed for a couple of seconds. A thought materializes in Draco’s head, Harry seems to be seriously touch-starved, it feels as if Harry needs this just as much as Draco needs it. His eyes open again, he blinks a couple of times, bringing Draco into focus. Just gazing at Harry, the open look in his bright green eyes, decides it for Draco. He is going to speak again and soon. Because for all the ugliness in the world, some of which he has brought into it himself, there is still beauty there as well. Harry is part of this beauty and if he can make an effort for Draco, applying for his guardianship to show him that there is still something out there for him, then surely, he can make an effort for Harry. And when Harry is there, what can ever really happen to him?

“Draco,” Harry rasps, “I think I’m going to…” His movements become erratic, the hand on Draco’s cock tightens further as Harry nears his release. Harry’s brows are furrowed in the effort to hold out just a few strokes longer, just until Draco comes with him. Draco brushes his thumbs over Harry’s creased forehead tenderly, trying to smooth out his beautiful face. His balls are impossibly tight, the pressure that has been building there becoming almost too much to bear.

“Come on, Draco. Come for me, please,” Harry manages through gritted teeth and how could he not do what Harry asks of him? Two more thrusts and Draco comes hard, blackness threatening to creep in from the corners of his vision. Three more thrusts and Harry comes as well, sobbing out Draco’s name, holding him tightly and then kissing him possessively.

They breathe heavily for a couple of minutes, still tangled together. Eventually, Harry shifts and wraps himself around him. Draco snuggles into the embrace, breathing Harry in. Sweat and sex and Harry. A contented sigh leaves him, he lets his eyes drift shut and nods off within the minute.

When he comes to again, Harry doesn’t lie beside him anymore. Instead he sits somewhere near his feet, starring off into the distance. Draco crawls over to him, taking one of his arms and wrapping it around himself, but Potter is unresponsive, letting his arm fall again as soon as Draco releases it. When Draco tugs on his arm impatiently, he turns towards him. His eyes are cold and his face impassive. Draco recoils from the sudden coldness that is Potter.

“Don’t make me do that again,” he says icily, “I feel like a fucking perpetrator.” Draco reaches out a hand, but Potter flinches back, glaring at him. And while he has felt contented just a few seconds ago, he feels wrecked with guilt now.

“Get dressed, I’m taking you back to St. Mungo’s,” he says, not looking at Draco when he speaks. Draco does as he is told. What else is he supposed to do?

They floo to St. Mungo’s and when they get there, Draco goes straight to his room. He thinks about changing into his night clothes and trying to sleep, but Potter is surely speaking to Schmendrick now. About him. He should be privy to that conversation. Just because he is going through a rough patch doesn’t mean that people are allowed to talk about him or decide things for him.

So, he sneaks out of his room again and walks over to Schmendrick’s office. He doesn’t even have to try very hard to hear the two men talking.

“This is highly – and I mean highly – irregular, Mr Potter,” Schmendrick says sounding disappointed.

“I know and I’m sorry,” Potter answers. Draco knows exactly what Potter looks like at this moment, head bent, looking at the floor, at his foot scraping across it.

“Mr Malfoy is in no condition to consent to anything at the moment. I was very fine with you taking him out, because it clearly helped his recovery. He has gotten way better since you have been visiting. Before you came by it had been one year of zero progress and look where we’re at now. But that, of course, doesn’t mean that sex should be a part of your interactions with Mr Malfoy.”

“I didn’t plan on it, it just happened,” Potter continues.

“Clearly,” says Schmendrick. Draco feels his muscles rearranging his face into a frown. Was that sarcasm? He would have been able to detect it, if he was in the room with Schmendrick, Potter, however, handicapped as he is, isn’t able to detect it.

“Huh?”

“Well, Mr Malfoy has clearly manipulated you into it. It’s pretty obvious. He is getting better, he is at a stage of his recovery where he could make real progress. He knows this, of course, and he is scared of it. So, he tries to distract himself.” What a load of shit! He most certainly is not scared of recovering, thank you very much. Schmendrick the presuming, self-satisfied bastard. What a load of utter fucking shit! He is, in fact, so furious that he turns around and marches back into his room, where he shuts the door behind himself and climbs into his bed. He pulls the blanket over his head, rolls over, so that his back is turned to the door and crosses his arms in front of his chest.

It only takes a couple of minutes until his door opens and Potter steps into his room. He hears him approach and the matrass dips as he sits down next to Draco. He feels the blanket being pulled away, but stays turned away from Potter. And for a few moments Potter accepts it, but then he says sternly, “Draco, look at me.” He gives himself another second before he complies.

“I’m sorry,” Potter says. Draco rolls his eyes at him and then continues to scowl. He is getting tired of Potter’s constant apologies.

“You know what?” Potter snaps, “I’m getting tired of constantly apologizing to you. I have done nothing wrong.” There is a pause in which he shoves Draco lightly. “Almost.”

He gets up from the bed and starts pacing through his room angrily.

“You behaved like a total dick today. You knew that it would be easy to manipulate me into sleeping with you after that horrid interrogation. You knew that I would have done anything to make you feel better and you took advantage of that,” he rants, “You knew and you did it anyway. Even after I have told you multiple times that something like that couldn’t happen.” Potter slumps down on the bed again, keeping his gaze turned away from Draco, scowling at nothing in particular. For a couple of minutes nothing happens. Draco sits on his bed looking at Potter, Potter focusses on the door, avoiding Draco’s gaze. Draco leans forward then, takes Potter’s hand and squeezes it. Willing Potter to understand that although he wouldn’t go so far as saying that he is right, he might be able to understand where the other man is coming from. Potter, however, snatches his hand away, his anger apparently only fuelled by the action.

“You know what, Draco,” Potter snaps, “If you have something to say to me, why don’t you just come out and say it?” He glares at Draco, who opens his mouth as if to say something but closes it after a few seconds with a resigned drop of his head.

“Surprise, surprise. You’re too scared,” he drawls in a way that is intended to hurt Draco’s feelings and doesn’t fall short. His head snaps upwards again, so fast that he nearly gives himself whiplash. They’re both angry now, glaring at each other with narrowed eyes, faces flushed, hands balled into fists. He can see this getting out of hand. His hands are tingling with the immense desire to punch Potter in his stupid face, but he refrains from hitting the other man, because nothing good could ever come from punching the fucking Saviour. Especially not for a former Death Eater.

“You act as if you’re the only one who went through something traumatic here,” Potter spits. “I’ve got news for you, you’re not! And I won’t keep on enabling you in your stupid behaviour. Either you start fighting for your recovery or you can rot in here for all I care!” With that said, Potter storms out of his room and slams the door behind himself, leaving behind a furious Draco.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I suck for not posting the entire rest of the story. 
> 
> I just thought a shorter update was better than none. (Work is killing me, but I still wanted to update)
> 
> The next chapter is definitely going to be the last!
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Feel free to let me know what you think (and make me very happy in the process).


	6. Can You Feel My Heart? Pt. 3

The next day Potter doesn’t show up and even though it is dull, Draco is glad because Potter sure as hell isn’t the only one who is pissed off. How dare the Prat insinuate that he doesn’t care about his recovery? Of course, he cares. He wants to get out of JTW, he really does, but he just isn’t ready yet. And if Potter cared at all about him, the way he so often likes to claim, then he wouldn’t pressure Draco, then he would accept that healing takes time. He is able to leave this part of their conversation behind pretty quickly.

The part, however, where Potter accused him of acting as if he were the only one who has suffered through a traumatic experience, stings. And it stings probably because no matter how badly he wants to deny it Potter has something resembling a point. It has been a while since he has noticed anything about Potter that gave anything away about how he is dealing with all of this. He remembers how gruff Potter looked at the very beginning, during the first months of his visits. But somewhere along the line Potter has either started looking better or Draco has stopped noticing. He tries to conjure up Potter before his mind’s eye. How has he looked the last time he has seen him? Have the dark circles under his eyes disappeared? Has he looked less drawn and more rested? For the life of him, he cannot say.

Not unlike Draco, Potter doesn’t really like to talk about his trauma. Draco knows is that he has Sunday dinners at the Weasley family home, that he accompanies Longbottom to visit his parents, that he has broken up with his girlfriend because she has a new boyfriend. Theo Nott, no less. But he is quite sure that the little fact that Potter likes cock might have factored into their end. He knows that he has quit the Aurors and is currently unsure what to do with his life. He knows where he lives and that he is into romantic comedies. He knows a number of inane stories, but he doesn’t know a lot about what moves Potter, about how he is coping with the aftermath of the war. Except for the odd dark day, the likes of which have become fewer and fewer in the time he has been visiting Draco, he doesn’t know anything, because Potter thoroughly avoids the topic. And he doesn’t ask. Because he doesn’t speak. Because he retreats to his happy place as soon as he isn’t the centre of attention.

When Potter doesn’t show up the next day, he gets restless. For one thing, he is hungry as fuck. He hasn’t had to rely on hospital food to stay fed for a while now. Without Potter, there are no visits to cafés or take out lunch or sweets with a movie. The hunger makes him irritable. Around dinner time he is so hungry that he eats what’s on offer, scowling the whole time.

On the third day he begins to consider that he might be able to work harder for his recovery after all. Maybe Potter was right, maybe he really is trying to distract himself because he is scared. But the question that comes to his mind now is, is it really worth it now that Potter has left him? So far, Potter – no, let’s face it – Harry has been what he has been imagining as a life after JTW. He has thought that Harry would be there with him. Would he want to be there now? Has he given up on Draco?

It takes till the fifth day until he gets an answer to his question. He is lounging in the library with a book when the door opens and Hermione Granger walks into the room.

“Hi Draco,” she says cheerfully and sits down in an armchair next to him. There goes his relaxed day of reading and painting and probably also wanking. He looks at her uncertainly. What has Harry told her? Is she mad at him, too?

“So, Harry is pretty mad at you,” she says with raised eyebrows, but a warm smile on her face. Apparently, she thinks this is funny. He averts his gaze, because for all the time that he has had to spend without Harry in the last few days, somewhere along the line he has started to feel like shit. Because he misses Harry and because he might be persuaded to admit that Harry might be the tiniest bit right. Even though the way he expresses himself leaves something to be desired.

“Oh Draco, don’t beat yourself up. He will come around,” she quips. “It cannot be that bad, can it?” Well, can it? He doesn’t know. It has been almost a week and the longer Harry stays away, the worse he feels about the whole thing. Well, except at night when the ward is quiet and his unconsciousness provides him with flashes of vivid memories of bodies sliding together, mouths gasping, kissing, biting, hands touching, bringing pleasure, caressing, grabbing, pulling… He blushes violently. It is weird sporting a semi while sitting next to Hermione Granger. When he meets her eyes again her eyebrows have risen even higher. Understanding begins to dawn on her face.

“Oh god! Have you had sex?” she screeches at about the volume of a roaring dragon.

“Shhh,” he makes before he even has a chance to think about it. Granger looks at him, eyes perfectly round.

“Oh my god! Draco, you just spoke!” she exclaims and lunges herself forward and into his arms. She knocks the breath out of him. When she settles back into her own chair and looks at him, he shakes his head. No, he hasn’t spoken. Because if he had, it would have been to Harry. His first words are going to be addressed to Harry.

Granger leans back in her chair and whistles at everything she has had to take in in the last few minutes. “You have had sex with Harry,” she says, “And you spoke!” He shakes his head violently.

“Well, you communicated then, if that’s better with you.” She crosses her arms in front of her chest and looks at him.

“You up for some cake?” she asks, suddenly and out of the blue. He doesn’t need to be asked twice and is out of the chair before she has even finished her question. For one thing, he is glad to have this conversation over with, for another, he is _hungry_.

Granger talks at him the whole time, but fortunately she doesn’t ask any more about his and Harry’s fight. She sticks to the same inane stories that Harry used to tell him when he first started visiting.

When he retires to his room that night, he is glad that Granger came. Not only because he sees her visit as a sign that Harry hasn’t given up on him, but also because she is better company than he would have thought back when he still was a prejudiced prick. He likes to think that he has changed. Not only because the Dark Lord is dead and there is nothing to be gained from such attitudes. He likes to think that he has seen reason even before the end of the war.

Granger doesn’t return the next day. It is Luna Lovegood who comes into the art room just after his measly lunch. He is hungry and irritable and what he really doesn’t need is to feel like a piece of shit for having been part of the crowd that held Lovegood in his basement. Lovegood, however, doesn’t acknowledge that they have any kind of bad history between the two of them.

“I’ve brought food,” she says cheerily and even though he has sworn to himself to keep his distance from her the mention of actual edible food draws him out of his metaphorical lair. It’s only sandwiches, but compared to St. Mungo’s food they are divine.

He soon notices that Lovegood doesn’t possess any kind of filter. What goes through her mind comes out of her mouth within seconds, is how it seems to him. Without any regard to what Draco is comfortable talking about. Or being talked at about.

“I know, it is hard, Draco. I know, how you must feel. That there is nothing out there for you. That the wizarding world is glad to be rid of you,” she says and gives him a sympathetic look. “I would like to say you’re wrong about that. But I would be lying. There are, of course, those who do want to get rid of you. But as a person who was directly affected by the war, who has seen you during that time and noticed what you went through, I want to tell you that I don’t feel that way.” His eyes sting. Why is she talking about this now?

“I know that you were shit-scared during that time. I know that there was no way for you to do anything differently. The Dark Lord was just as cruel to his followers as he was to his enemies.” He feels the tears brimming over and quickly wipes at his cheeks to hide them from her. But Lovegood just gives him a sympathetic look and doesn’t comment any further.

“You sometimes brought extra blankets and there was always more food when you had to bring it down to us. You didn’t give Harry and the others away. You recognized the madness and even though you couldn’t do anything about it, you tried.” He has to put his head into his hands, so that Lovegood doesn’t see him weeping. Yes, he has done these things, but has he done them because he has recognized the madness, as she has put it? For the life of him, he doesn’t know why he has done any of those things. And also, they are not heroic acts by any means. He hasn’t broken into Gringotts or into the Ministry to save Muggle-borns. He hasn’t beheaded Nagini or fought Death Eaters during the battle of Hogwarts. He has only brought a couple of blankets and the odd extra slice of bread. He has really done nothing of importance.

Lovegood doesn’t start again on the topic, but gives him some time to collect his bearings. And when he finally pulls himself together, she changes the topic of conversation.

“So, what do you normally do at this time of the day?” she asks. “Do you paint?” He nods and she beams at him.

“Can I join you?” He nods again and then proceeds to gather his painting materials adding an extra canvas and easel for her. While she paints a happy abstract painting, full of different shades of yellow and orange, he sets to paint another portrait. They are mostly silent while they work and after about two and a half hours, Lovegood drops her brush and looks over at Draco again.

“I think, it’s time to go,” she says and walks over to him, peering at his canvas.

“Oh, is that me?” she coos. He nods.

“Wow, that is beautiful. You’re flattering me.” She winks at him, but he shakes his head, because he hasn’t flattered her. She has grown up to be quite beautiful, even though her eyes are still a little large for her face. He gestures from her to the painting.

“You want to give it to me?” she asks and he nods again. “Thank you, Draco. It really is beautiful.” He smiles at her thankfully. Even though, he has been crying just a few hours ago, her visit has really helped him. He feels better about himself now. Not good, but better.

In the future, when he is out of here, they will have to talk about this again. He will have to apologize, maybe not for Lovegood’s benefit, because for all intents and purposes it seems that she has already forgiven him. Maybe she has never even felt that there was something to forgive in the first place. And maybe he only wants to talk to her and ask for forgiveness for his own benefit, but whichever way, it is going to happen.

He is glad when she is gone. Not because he doesn’t like her, because he does. And he really feels that her visit has been good for him. But still her casual, brutal honesty his hard to digest and hopes that she won’t come back the next day, because for now it is probably best to enjoy her in homeopathic dosages.

He does, however, wish that Lovegood had come back when it is Weasley who walks into the ward the next day. He tosses the gobsmacked Draco a neatly wrapped package when he sits down in the chair opposite of him. For lack of anything better to do, Draco opens the package and finds two huge slices of chocolate cake inside. He quickly darts out of the room to fetch some plates and forks from the cafeteria, taking his time in the process because he cannot really picture himself and Weasley sitting together in the art room. No amount of dawdling can ultimately prevent him from returning to Weasley though.

When he is back in the chair opposite of him, Weasley starts a monologue that he has probably memorized for the occasion.

“So, Hermione wants me to be the bigger man. And Harry too, off course. I am though, literally. I’m taller than you. That should count for something.” Draco rolls his eyes. Weasley ignores it. “I’m going to do the whole manly thing. Build a house, father a child, plant a tree, all that rot. So, as far as I’m concerned, I am the bigger man. Very secure in my manhood, I am.” He smirks at Draco. “Of course, that’s not what Hermione is talking about. She wants me to be friendly and what not. She wants me to accept that you and Harry are an item. Can’t really say that’s a surprise. He has always been kind of stuck on you. And now that he has finally admitted that he is gay, it makes a whole lot more sense. Ginny tells me you’re quite good looking. I don’t notice such crap, but if she says so, I guess it must be true. Well, better you than me, right? That would have been awkward. Harry fancying me instead of you.” He snorts.

“So, I’m going to be the bigger man. I’m not going to make a fuss. When you actually decide to talk again, and Hermione says it’s bound to happen soon, I’m not going to ignore you, I’m going to talk to you. I’m going to be civil and what not. Maybe we’ll even end up friends.” This time he outright laughs, as if the notion of them being friends is the most ridiculous thing he has ever heard, which it is as far as Draco is concerned. “But I swear, if you mess with Harry, I’m going to mess with you. And I’m going to enjoy it!” Draco has never thought of Weasley as scary. Ridiculous, yes, but scary, not so much. Anyway, at this moment he is. Scary that is. Weasley glares at him for a few more moments and then says unexpectedly and totally out of the blue, “So, you up for a round of chess?”

Before he even has a chance to consider it, let alone process anything that Weasley has just said, his head moves to nod without his permission. He barely notices Weasley setting up the chess board and by the time he is able to form anything resembling a clear thought they are already half way through the first game. He loses dismally but by the second game he puts up more of a fight and by the third he begins to enjoy having to use his head for something else than stuffing food into.

The next day it is Longbottom who comes by. It is all Draco can do not to roll his eyes. Not because he has anything against Longbottom, but because Potter is such a fucking Gryffindor for still sending his friends to visit Draco when he himself is too pissed off to even consider it. He smiles at his knees at the thought. When he’s got his face under control once more he looks at Longbottom and nods in greeting. Longbottom takes a seat across from him and passes him a Styrofoam container. His mouth starts watering at the first whiff of what turns out to be fucking delicious. He moans at the first bite and sends Longbottom a grateful smile.

Longbottom doesn’t talk much, most of it is meaningless chit chat, but just as every visitor before him he, apparently, feels the strong urge to tell Draco exactly what he thinks about him. Just like Granger when she first visited him, just like Weasley and Lovegood in the previous two days.

“I know what it is like to face up to the high expectations of your family,” he says and gives Draco a sympathetic smile. “I’m not gonna lie, you were the absolute worst.” He winks at Draco and chuckles quietly. The days of the scared boy he once was are obviously over. “Only ever surpassed in assholedom by Snape, but I get it. I do. I would have done anything to please my grandma. I tried to prevent Harry and the others from getting the philosopher’s stone. Well, I didn’t actually, I tried to prevent them from sneaking out and cost Gryffindor more house points. I worked my butt off in Dumbledore’s army and went to the Ministry to fight to save Sirius Black. I fought the Death Eaters you let into the school. I let the Carrows and their cronies beat the living shit out of me for defying them again and again. And in the end, I chopped Voldemort’s fucking snake’s head off.” He counts off every deed on his fingers. “I didn’t do any of these things because I wanted to, but because I needed to. I had no regard for my safety or my life because that’s how much I fucking needed my grandma to see me. I wished for my parents to see me, but that was never going to happen. So, what I’m saying is, I do get it. Why you did what you did.” Draco nods, unable to even begin understanding why everyone is so keen on forgiving him. He can only imagine the kind of conversations Harry must have gone through to get his friends to come here. He cannot imagine, however, what he had to do to get them to be friendly.

The week drags on with different people visiting him every day. They all bring him food and forgiveness and he is glad and thankful for it. But it is also exhausting. He feels like he hasn’t earned any of it. There needs to be more to forgiveness. It cannot simply rain down on you for free. It needs to be achieved. So, in the end, he doesn’t really feel like he has been forgiven, because as it is he cannot forgive himself yet. But it feels good to know that true, earned forgiveness is a possibility for him in the future.

* * *

After three weeks’ worth of visits from Potter’s friends Draco cannot take it anymore. He takes a piece of parchment and scribbles down a note.

_I’m sorry._

_–_ _ D _

He rolls the parchment up and takes it to Schmendrick who thankfully is quick on the uptake and allows him to use his personal owl. He even instructs him on how to send future letters without having to ask him every time.

“I’m glad you’re starting to communicate, Mr Malfoy,” he says when Draco is about to leave his office, “I just wish you would do so verbally.” Draco just shrugs at him. He doesn’t really have a way to reach Potter at the moment, so a letter is it. Also, he feels that an apology is not the first thing he wants to say out loud.

He doesn’t know how long he will have to wait for a response from Potter. It is maddening. Although they have spent so much time together in the last months he barely knows anything about the other man. What does he do except visit Draco? Does he have a job? Does he meet his friends? What is his day to day life like? There is no way he could predict how long it is going to take Potter to answer and the uncertainty is making him anxiously pace in his room.

Fortunately, after about thirty minutes Schmendrick’s owl returns with a new roll of parchment tied to its leg. He scratches the owl’s head before he unties the parchment with shaky hands.

_Are you?_

_– H_

_P.S.: I’m glad you’re starting to communicate._

Well, of course, he isn’t sorry. He has wanted Potter for weeks before the questioning. Probably even before he acknowledged the fact to himself. He is, however, very sorry for the way the evening ended. He would have hoped to wake up in Potter’s arms. He would have hoped for Potter to be happy about the turn of events, how something so ugly has brought them together. He would have hoped that Potter knew how much Draco needed him, that he might be glad to know it. He would have hoped that Potter wanted him back.

_Well, no. I really wanted it. But I’m sorry I made you, when you clearly didn’t want me back._

_– D_

_P.S.: That’s what Schmendrick said._

_  
_The thought that Potter didn’t want him, doesn’t want him now, stings. It is hard to understand everything that has been going on during the last months, though. Why does Harry spend so much time with him, if he doesn’t want him? He doesn’t get what it so special about a little fucking that has Harry’s knickers in such a twist. The only feasible reason is that he meets Harry’s desire to save people. He probably knows that outright telling Draco that he doesn’t want him would stand in the way of getting his fix of saving someone. He knows that Harry is probably using him, but he needs him anyway. His eyes prickle, but he figures honesty is the way to go here. And when he reads Potters answering letter, he figures that the same is true for Potter.

_When I clearly didn’t want you? Are you daft? I want you so badly, it’s driving me mad!_

_But we shouldn’t be doing it when you have no way to tell me when you have changed your mind and no way to tell me how you like it. _

_– H_

_P.S.: Schmendrick agrees with me on this, too._

_P.P.S.: I’m sorry, too. For going off on you like that._

He presses the parchment against his chest, feeling his heartbeat through the layers of clothes and paper. Can he believe him? He has said that he wants Draco multiple times, but he has a hard time getting that into his head. Because why would he? It seems so implausible that the Saviour of the Wizarding World could want a half-insane Death Eater like himself, that his head jumped straight to the conclusion that Harry didn’t want him when he rejected him. His cock, however, stirs just at the thought of consenting to have sex with Potter again, to tell him to stop when he wants to switch positions or to exactly tell him what kind of filthy things he wants the Saviour to do to him. He is, of course, purposely avoiding the real meaning of Harry’s words. He cannot imagine Harry doing something that he doesn’t want as well and he is sure that it would have been entirely possible to stop Harry at any given time. Didn’t he ask like a hundred million times if Draco really wanted this?

_Trust me, I very much liked it. And you would have known if I didn’t._

_Will you come back? I promise not to jump you._

_– D_

_P.S.: You’re both prats then._

_P.P.S.: You are forgiven._

He needs Harry back. It is as if what is truly threatening his sanity isn’t what he has been through but the very ward itself. The thought that he hasn’t seen the light of day for three weeks is enough to make him feel claustrophobic. And that doesn’t even touch the food issue.

_Of course, I will come back. How does tomorrow sound?_

_– H_

_P.S.: Flattery will get you everywhere, Draco._

He is beyond relieved. Potter doesn’t need to know that. Even though he suspects that he does know anyway.

_I think I will be able to squeeze you into my schedule._

_– D_

* * *

When Harry finally returns the next day, he pulls Draco into a tight hug and kisses his temple quickly. It is such a brief and tender touch, yet it makes his chest go tight. He leans into the embrace, however, short it is.

Harry leaves him for a couple of minutes to speak to Schmendrick and then they’re off. The sunshine on his face, the wind in his hair, Harry’s hand in his left and a kebab in his right are glorious. Harry has picked up pretty quickly that Draco has no desire to spend any more time indoors and so they walk through a nearby park, find a bench overlooking a small pond and eat in companionable silence. That is all they do the first day.

Over the next few weeks they pick up their former routine. They go out to eat every day in a different restaurant or take away places and afterwards they apparate all over the country to different sights. They sit together at Dunnet Head, the most northern point of mainland Britain, looking over the sea just able to catch a glimpse of the Orkneys, when Harry proposes to switch up their routine.

“Have you thought about accompanying me to the Burrow some time?” he asks. He has asked him about it several times already, but up until now Draco has always declined. He shakes his head, because he really doesn’t want to go.

“Come on,” Harry says, “You have met almost all of them. It’s going to be okay.” Draco shoots him a doubtful look.

“Trust me, it is going to be okay.” He shakes his head, because it probably isn’t. It is one thing to have Harry’s friends visit him individually, on their own, at the ward, but it is a whole other thing to see all of them at the same time and on their territory no less. It is literally like walking into the lion’s den. Because they are all Gryffindors. And don’t forget the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs who are bound to be there. So, there are going to be eagles and badgers as well. There’s no kidding around with eagles and probably not with badgers either. Especially if they are honey badgers. And Harry would be the kind of person to only choose the honey badgers out of the whole house of badgers that he could have chosen from. And isn’t the one Weasley married to that French girl, the half Veela? She’s bound to be fierce, French and Veela, that sounds like an explosive combination. So, no, he really doesn’t have any desire to go to the Burrow with Harry.

“Come on. Just give it a try. If you hate it, I’ll never ask again.” Well, he’s going to believe that one when he sees it. But then Harry gives him that look. He looks disappointed, like he really wants for Draco to come with him. Underneath it, however, Draco thinks he can spot something else, compassion and probably also respect. Harry is going to accept whatever he is going to decide. If he doesn’t agree to come today, he is probably going to ask again and there probably will be a certain amount of pressure, but in the end, Harry is going to accept his decision. It feels nice to know that. And suddenly he nods. His fucking traitorous head nods. Just like that. He is going to the Burrow. To have lunch. On Sunday. Wait. What day is it today?

Harry, of course, is oblivious to everything that is running through Draco’s head and pulls him into a short and enthusiastic hug. “You’re going to love it. Molly’s the best cook there is,” he says, smiling happily. For a couple of seconds, they are silent, until Harry says, “So, tomorrow it’s your mother and the day after that the Burrow.”

Okay, so he has one fucking day to prepare himself. That’s not very much. And naturally time flies by and before he even knows it, it is Sunday morning and he is standing in front of his measly wardrobe stressing out about what to wear to the fucking Burrow – and honestly, who names a house that? He is still standing in front of the walk-in wardrobe when Harry enters.

“Reliving happy memories?” he quips and they both chuckle quietly, taken back to Harry’s unfortunate outing. But Draco soon sobers before the task at hand. It doesn’t matter that almost all of Harry’s family have seen him in his normal JTW clothes, he still wants to make a good impression. Then again, does it really matter when he has already made the very worst impression he could have made long before he and Harry ever became friendly?

“Wear this,” Harry says, pulling out an anthracite jumper that Draco has been starring at for roughly half an hour. A jumper that has up until now been just a jumper, nothing special, until now that Harry hands it to him and says, “I like you in this one.”

So, he pulls it on. Who would have ever thought that the day would come when he would take fashion advice from Harry? Especially, when Granger had told him that actually Harry was the one lacking in that department. But when he looks at himself in the mirror, he is more than okay with Harry choosing his clothes.

They make their way out of St. Mungo’s and walk towards the nearest Apparition Point from where they apparate to Ottery St. Catchpole. From the hill on which they reappear, they have a beautiful view of the village on one side and the Burrow on the other. Even from afar the building looks so blatantly magical, that Draco wonders how the Muggles have never got suspicious.

When Harry starts walking towards the house, Draco’s arm snatches forward and his hand clamps down on Harry’s wrist, stopping the other man effectively. He suddenly realizes that he cannot walk down there. Harry needs to take him home. This has been a mistake, a promise he made to please Harry, not something he wants to do, not even something he should do. This is not going to go over well. Because, of course, all of Harry’s friends have behaved themselves when they visited him at the ward. How could they not have? Schmendrick would have thrown them out in a heartbeat if they had tried anything. But they are going to rip Draco to shreds once he crosses the threshold of that thing they call a house.

Harry turns towards him, taking his other hand as well. “You’re scared.” It’s not a question, but Draco nods anyway. Of course, he is scared. He knows what an abysmal person he has been, what he has done, what kind of hatred he had spouted every time he opened his mouth. He knows what kind of pain he has caused the Weasleys and he knows what kind of pain his lot has caused them. One of them has been possessed by the Dark Lord thanks to his father, one of them has lost an ear thanks to his favourite teacher, one of them has been mauled by a werewolf thanks to him – hell, one of them has fucking died! They are going to tar and feather him. If he’s lucky.

Harry shakes him gently, gripping both of his arms just above the elbow, urging him to focus his gaze on him. He hasn’t even noticed that his breathing has got out of control. It is only when Harry says, “Slow breaths, Draco. Slow breaths.” And he stands before him and breathes in deeply, showing Draco exactly what he wants to see from him. It is not as easy as Harry makes it seem to get his breathing under control when he feels like his windpipe is closing off, but eventually he manages.

Well, now he will be able to cross ‘have a panic attack in front of Harry’ off his to do list and he is just _so_ glad. But Harry wouldn’t be Harry, if he didn’t react with kindness. He pulls Draco into a hug and rubs soothing circles on his back. After a minute or so, he pulls back and holds Draco at arm’s length.

“We do not have to do this. I can take you back to St. Mungo’s now,” he says and Draco knows that he would follow through without blinking an eye. He wouldn’t even complain. But he can also see that Harry is disappointed. Not at him, but he has wished for Draco to go with him and the thought of going alone is disappointing. So, before he even knows it, he shakes his head.

“You sure?” Harry asks softly, reaching out and tucking one stray strand of hair behind his ear. “You really don’t have to, if it makes you this uncomfortable.” But Draco cannot stomach a discussion right now, however one-sided it might be, for he will lose his nerve if Harry asked another ten times if he was sure and told him that there would be absolutely no hard feelings if he just took him back now. Because he really would rather be in his room, instead of on this hill, on the way to his own slaughter. For a second, he thinks, that this is how Harry must have felt, when he went to face Voldemort and then he rolls his eyes at himself for being melodramatic. But this thought also decides it for him. If Harry can walk towards his own death, Draco can walk towards the fucking Burrow for him. So, he frees himself from Harry’s grip and tags him along down the hill.

His courage leaves him when there about half way there - naturally. And by the time they make it to the front door, he clutches Harry’s hand in what must be a painful grip. His hands are sweaty and his heart is racing, his stomach is fluttering nastily and he doesn’t know if he wants to vomit or cry. Harry doesn’t knock, but turns to Draco instead. Thankfully, he doesn’t offer to take him back again, because Draco would have taken him up on it in no time.

“It is going to be okay. There are only people here who you have met before, except for Molly and Arthur. I have spoken to every person in attendance and they are all fine with you coming along today. So, focus on the food and it’s going to be okay,” he says and breathes in deeply in an attempt to urge Draco to imitate him again. Draco does and it really makes him feel better. “And now, please loosen your grip on my hand. I think my pinky is already starting to die off.” They both break out in quiet laughter and Draco has nearly forgotten where they are and what he is about to do, when suddenly the door is ripped open and everything comes crashing down on him again, making him flinch violently.

“What are you two doing out here? Come in, come in. Food’s already on the table,” Mrs Weasley’s voice booms from the open door. They are ushered into a cluttered kitchen. In the middle of the room stands a large dining table, laden with food which smells, just as Harry has promised, delicious. They are greeted by calls of “Finally!” and “Can we eat now? I’m starving.” and Harry only says, “Well, it’s nice to see you too.” He pulls out one of the mismatched chairs for Draco to sit down in and then sits next to him.

As soon as they are seated, everyone starts loading up their plates with food, not paying any attention to the new addition to their Sunday lunches. Silence falls over the table, only interrupted by the odd “Can you pass this?” or “Can you pass that?”, and Draco uses his chance while everybody is occupied to let his gaze wander and take in with whom exactly he is dining today. There is Granger and her Weasley and fuck, the sheer number of Weasleys makes it necessary to call them by their first names, doesn’t it? So, there is Hermione and Ronald, sitting opposite of him and Harry. Then there is the oldest Weasley, Bill, the one who has been attacked by Greyback, his scars still looking grisly. Next to him is his wife, who if possible looks even more beautiful than she did back in his fourth year. Next to her sits George, the remaining twin. Seeing him makes him nearly gasp with surprise. He would have thought that he couldn’t be arsed to show up when he had lost of his brother which must have been… well, worse than Draco could ever imagine probably. He feels the distinct urge to kick Harry for lying, because George hasn’t been to see him at JTW. Ginevra and Theodore are there as well, but he isn’t really sure what to make off that. Should he be glad that there is another Slytherin there or should he be on the lookout because he is sitting next to Harry and she is not? Then there are Mr and Mrs Weasley, of course, and he immediately notices that Mrs Weasley has obviously lost a lot of weight after the war probably while mourning all of their losses. He also notices that she isn’t digging in with the same vigour that all the others are showing, but pushing her food around her plate glancing at her family from time to time. He isn’t fast enough in averting his gaze, because suddenly she catches his eyes.

“Oh Draco, I’m so sorry,” she calls out, when she sees that he is the only one whose plate is still empty. “Here, give me your plate.” And when Draco doesn’t move to comply, Harry takes his plate and hands it to her.

“Thank you, Harry dear,” she says and begins shovelling food onto it. Draco’s eyes go wide at the small mountain that is growing on his plate and when it is set before him again he isn’t sure whether it is possible for one human being to ingest that much food. But he doesn’t want to be impolite, so he nods his thanks and digs in.

He realises that Harry has not been wrong when he said that Mr Weasley is a great cook and soon the mountain becomes smaller and smaller. Unfortunately, just as soon he is stuffed and struggling to clear his plate in an effort to not be impolite. Most of the others have already pushed their plates away from themselves, clearly indicating that they have finished eating. Draco wishes he could just do the same, but he doesn’t want Mrs Weasley thinking that he would turn up his nose at her cooking, which must be very much in line with her view of his character, so he soldiers on. Everybody is looking at him by now and he feels beyond uncomfortable, because not only does his stomach feel like it might explode at any moment, but also is he the sole centre of attention.

He is glad when Theo suddenly says, “So, Quidditch anyone?” and shoots his former house mate a grateful glance. Most of the occupants of the table get up enthusiastically. Only Harry stays behind by his side.

“You coming, Harry?” Ronald asks from the door.

“Nah, I’m fine here,” he answers, but Draco can tell that he wants to go, so he shoves him lightly in order to tell him that it is okay if he wants to play.

“You sure?” he asks, throwing Draco an uncertain look. Draco merely nods because he doesn’t want to keep Harry from participating in what seems to be a Sunday tradition. Harry smiles at him radiantly and bounds off the chair towards the door calling out, “Prepare to get your asses whipped, you sorry losers!”

Draco smiles to himself at Harry’s enthusiasm. But then he realises that he is now alone in the room with Mrs Weasley. He looks at her and blushes when he realises that she has taken the chair opposite of him and is watching him struggle to get her food down.

“You’re full, aren’t you?” she asks softly and he shoots her a pathetic helpless glance before he nods hesitantly. “Well, you’ve packed it away like a prize eater so, there’s no need to be embarrassed. You can stop eating now.” He freezes, fork half-way to his mouth, looking at her uncertainly. Is she having him on? Or can he really and safely stop eating now? Maybe she is just searching for a reason to hate him. She probably already does and now wants to torture him. They stare at each other for a couple of moments while Draco further contemplates if he can really lower the fork now or if he would be committing a terrible faux-pas should he do so.

“Put that fork down,” Mrs Weasley instructs him gently when he shows no signs of movement. He does as he is told and when finally, the liberating clatter of a fork hitting a plate sounds through the room he shoots her a grateful glance. She reciprocates with a warm smile.

“I think I have overdone it with you today. I’m sorry,” she says. It is weird with these Gryffindors. How is she the one apologising right now? It’s not as if she has tried to kill him by stuffing him full of food or is it?

“Harry has told me all about your problems with the St. Mungo’s food.” Another warm smile. “I still remember when Arthur was there, after that horrible snake bit him. The food in that place really is dreadful.” He manages a shaky smile as a means of agreement, remembering yet another way in which he has caused them pain, because he has supported that. He remembers his father being jubilant that Christmas break and he remembers being too much of a coward to disagree with him.

“I feel like we need to talk – or rather like I have to say a couple of things,” she says and Draco averts his gaze, looking at his hands instead of at her. He knows that he needs to hear everything that the people he and his lot have wronged have to say. It is exhausting and he wishes that he could escape it somehow because it makes him relive his worst moments over and over, but then again, these talks aren’t about him. Or at least not entirely. These talks are about the feelings of other people and about what they have to say to find it in themselves to move on. It is confusing how he desperately wishes to escape these awkward moments, how he doesn’t want to hear what they have to say, how he needs to hear it anyway and how he is granted forgiveness afterwards, like he has done anything to deserve it.

“I don’t know how I feel about you sitting at the very same table that so many people, friends and family, have sat at who are now dead.” Suddenly the thought materializes in his head, that this is probably going to be the first of his many one-sided conversations that is not going to result in forgiveness and it makes him feel relieved. It makes him feel taken seriously. “I don’t blame you for their deaths. I know that you haven’t killed anyone. It’s just…” she breaks off unable to find the words. Draco looks up from his hands and locks eyes with her. He nods his head at her to let her know that he understands. He hasn’t killed anyone, but he hasn’t done anything to prevent it either.

“You are all still so young and already you’ve been through so much. It’s frankly ridiculous that this entire war has depended so much on the participation of children. I have always tried to shield my children from it and in the end, they have all ended up involved. It wasn’t fair to any of you. You all had to take on responsibilities that no child should ever have to bear.” She daps her eyes with a white handkerchief that she produces out of her pocket.

“They are all so eager to forget and they are ready to forgive, because they want to leave the war behind. They want to move on. For me it is going to take longer though.” Again, Draco nods, willing her to understand that he doesn’t need her forgiveness now, that he doesn’t deserve it and that it is okay if she hates him forever.

“To be forgiven is one thing, but to forgive is sometimes even more important because it frees the person who is forgiving. I’m not specifically speaking about you right now, but in general. When you forgive a person, you leave a part of the misery behind yourself. And all my children are so ready, so desperate to leave the misery behind. I can’t do that now. Misery is such a big part of me, if I let it go there would be nothing left of me.” She daps at her eyes again and Draco’s eyes are brimming with tears as well. He is blinking furiously to keep them from spilling. Because isn’t that just the thing? What would be left of Draco if he left the misery behind? If he started talking and left St. Mungo’s?

“But I trust Harry. So, maybe one day all this will lie behind us at least to a certain degree.” She smiles at him weakly and when he tries to smile back, the tears finally spill over and he desperately tries to brush them away as soon as they fall.

This is how he ends up crying in the Burrow kitchen together with Molly Weasley. It’s positively surreal. And suddenly he is laughing and Mrs Weasley takes one look at him and starts laughing with him. Like two nut jobs they laugh and cry at the same time. When they finally sober, Mrs Weasley says, “Don’t you want to go outside for some Quidditch?”

But Draco shakes his head and starts collecting plates instead. They clear the table and clean up the kitchen together in companionable silence and despite not having been forgiven it is the best that Draco has felt in a while. It is okay not to be forgiven, he hasn’t forgiven himself yet, so why should anyone else? With Harry’s friends it felt exactly like Mrs Weasley has just said. They have been eager to forgive him, because they needed to leave the war behind. They aren’t really interested in him or his feelings, in how he is coping with all of this. And, of course, they don’t need to be, it’s okay if it makes them feel better. But with Mrs Weasley he feels taken seriously, like it matters what he did, what has been done to him, that he still hurts. Not forgiving him validates his pain. It makes him feel less of a nut job and more like someone legitimately suffering after going through something horrible.

They are almost finished when Harry bursts into the kitchen again.

“Everything alright in here?” he asks, looking surprised at the sight of Draco and Mrs Weasley working next to each other.

“Oh yes, dear. Draco was just helping me clean up a little,” Mrs Weasley answers. Ronald stumbles into the kitchen behind Harry and once he takes in the sight before him he says, “Oh blimey, Malfoy you insufferable suck-up! Now I’m never going to hear the end of how nice it was when somebody helped her with the clean-up and _why don’t you ever help out Ron_?” He ends in a high pitch, imitating his mother’s nagging.

Draco’s head snaps around at the harsh words, but when he lays eyes on Weasley he sees a teasing smirk on his face, so he sticks out his tongue at him and follows that with a smug grin. Weasley flips him a two-fingered salute before walking over to his mother and placing a kiss on her temple. Draco asks himself why he has even bothered to come into the house in the first place, because he walks straight outside again.

Harry and Draco share a smile and then he walks over and pulls Draco into a casual side-hug right where Mrs Weasley can see them as if it was the most natural thing to do. He blushes deeply at the thought of having been found out, even when all the Weasleys probably know all about what has been going on between them. Especially, after Hermione found out that they have had sex.

“Do you want to go?” Harry asks and Draco nods, because his stomach is still painfully stuffed and he could really lie down and take a nap or hurl, whichever comes first.

“Oh, just wait a sec,” says Mrs Weasley, “I’m going to pack you some of the leftovers.” And she starts wrapping up enough food for a little army.

“Well, I’m not sure if he will need to eat again this week,” Harry quips and laughs, when he sees Draco’s pained face.

“Just put it under a stasis charm,” Mrs Weasley counters.

They quickly make their goodbyes and then they are off towards St. Mungo’s. As soon as they are out of sight, Draco leans heavily onto Harry for his stomach is really killing him.

“What’s wrong,” Harry asks, immediately concerned, and Draco just takes his hand and puts it on his stomach, throwing a suffering look at Harry who opts for a mock-stricken look.

“Have I got you pregnant?” he says feigning shock. But then resolves into laughter when he receives what Draco hopes to be a painful elbow to the ribs.

“Oh, poor baby,” he mocks, “Did you eat too much?” Draco is in too much pain to pay the mockery any mind and just sighs languishingly.

“That bad, huh?” Harry asks and the concern has returned to his voice and this time it is real. Draco nods, leaning on Harry even more.

“Are you going to be sick?” Well, is he? Probably not, but in the end, who knows? He shakes his head. Harry tightens his hold on Draco. “Are you ready to apparate back?” Another nod and he his swept away. He doesn’t, however, handle the familiar sensation of apparition too well today. As soon as his feet touch solid ground again he stumbles a couple of steps out of Harry’s reach and braces himself with one hand against the dirty wall of the dingy alley that accommodates the St. Mungo’s Apparition Point. A fierce wave of nausea rolls through him, making saliva pool in his mouth. He heaves a couple of times, but thankfully the food stays where it is.

Harry walks over to him and rubs soothing circles into the small of his back. He tries to breathe the nausea away and after a while the urgent need to vomit recedes and he straightens again.

“Are you feeling better?” He shrugs because he doesn’t really know. His stomach is so full that he has difficulty breathing. Part of him finds the idea of sicking up almost bearable, for it would probably make him feel better pretty quickly. Then again vomiting is terribly plebeian and he doesn’t really care for it. So, keeping it in is the goal here.

When he takes a step forward, the world around him tilts slightly, making him sway and Harry is by his side immediately. Before he even knows what is happening, he is swooped up and carried towards St. Mungo’s. He hates and loves it when Harry does that. For one thing it is incredibly hot that Harry is able to carry him so effortlessly, but on the other hand it is also kind of annoying being the damsel in distress.

When they arrive at Draco’s room, Harry lets him down on his bed. Harry the fucking show-off is barely out of breath from carrying him all this way.

“Okay, I think I should go now,” Harry says, once he has helped Draco under the covers. But Draco isn’t prepared to let him go and shoots out his hand to grab his wrist. He pulls him towards the bed and gives him a pitiable look in order to convince him to stay a bit longer. Of course, Harry, ever the saviour, doesn’t leave but climbs into bed next to Draco, throwing one arm over him and pulling him close, while his other hand gently strokes Draco’s aching stomach. Draco groans miserably.

“You wanted to make a good impression, didn’t you?” Harry inquires, smile audible in his voice, and Draco hides his face in the crook of his neck in shame. He is sure though that Harry is able to feel the heat of his blush.

“Draco Malfoy eating until he gets sick to impress a Weasley. Who would have ever thought?” Harry says playfully. If possible, Draco’s blush deepens, because that is exactly how it’s happened. He sneaks a hand over Harry’s stomach, up towards his chest and twists one of his nipples painfully.

“Ouch! That was uncalled for,” Harry yelps and when they make eye contact again, they both resolve into laughter. But laughing hurts, so Draco snuggles back against him.

“Thank you for coming today. It really meant a lot to me.” He kisses the top of Draco’s head. Draco feels so comfortable in his arms, the thought of having to let Harry go in just a few hours depresses him. He wants this. He wants Harry to be there, he wants to come home to him, hear his stories, banter, bicker and everything else as well. He knows what he has to do to get that. He has to start working for his recovery and with Harry by his side it feels like a manageable task.

“I–“ he croaks and immediately Harry tenses next to him. Then he leans back in order to get some space between them and looks into Draco’s face. Draco clears his throat a couple of times, until he is sure that his voice will obey his command. “I love you,” he finally manages.

“No, you don’t,” comes Harry’s prompt answer.

“Fuck you, Potter. When I say I do, I do,” he snaps, pulling further back from the embrace. He scowls at him, because who does he think he is, telling Draco what he does and doesn’t feel. But all he can see in Harry’s face is pure wonder, not unlike that of a child, and his eyes are brimming with unshed tears. He reaches out and threads his fingers into Harry’s hair.

“I do, Harry. I love you,” he repeats softly. And that is when the floodgates open and the tears begin to fall.

“You spoke, Draco,” Harry sobs. “And you love me.” Having almost forgotten his aching stomach, Draco pulls Harry close again and holds him while he sobs into his chest, which is a change that he could get quite used to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay this is it. The end. Or rather how I imagined the story to end.
> 
> I might write an epilogue over the holidays, however.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed my story. I hope you are satisfied with how I resolved it. I'm very interested in what you think and, of course, kudos are always welcomed.


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